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A  WOMAN   WHO   FAILED 
AND    OTHERS 


A  WOMAN  WHO  FAILED 


AND  OTHERS 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1893 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ROBERTS   BROTHERS. 


SSntbcrsttg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  WOMAN  WHO  FAILED 7 

A  SILENT  SOUL 44 

ESTHER  GODWIN'S  GEESE 86 

MARGARET'S  ROMANCE 106 

A  VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE ,141 

THE  MIDDLE  Miss  TALLMAN 183 

A  THANKSGIVING  WEDDING      ........    234 

Miss  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL 260 

UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET 285 

THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM 3X9 


A   WOMAN    WHO    FAILED, 

AND    OTHER   STORIES. 


A   WOMAN   WHO   FAILED. 

WHEN  Molly  Graham  married  Irving 
Tracy,  they  lived  for  a  time  in  pic- 
turesque poverty.  Now  picturesque  poverty 
is  not  a  bad  thing  to  live  in;  it  is  not  un- 
comfortable, and  is  very  apt  to  be  jolly. 
It  is  as  different  from  true  poverty,  as  that 
in  its  turn  is  from  squalor.  They  are  all 
steps  in  the  stairway  which  leads  from  absolute 
starvation  to  millionnairedom.  The  trouble 
with  picturesque  poverty  is  that  it  rarely 
lasts:  it  is  apt  to  make  progress  into  the 
next  step  of  being  well-to-do,  or  to  sink 
slowly  into  the  region  of  real  want.  The 
latter  direction  threatened  the  Tracys  at  the 
end  of  the  second  year  after  their  marriage. 

Irving  Tracy  was  a  doctor,  who  had  appar- 
ently every  requisite  for  a  successful  career. 


8  A    WOMAN    WHO  FAILED. 

He  was  young  and  strong,  devoted  to  his 
profession,  and  more  than  ordinarily  clever. 
He  was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  energy,  and 
looked  "  upon  the  world  as  his  oyster,"  which 
he  was  determined  to  open  as  speedily  as 
possible. 

He  was  called  "  a  very  promising  young 
man,"  by  the  elder  citizens  of  Greenville, 
whither  he  had  come  about  three  years  be- 
fore his  marriage.  During  that  time  he  had 
succeeded  in  gaining  a  considerable  practice. 
He  had  a  frank,  pleasant  way,  which  soon 
made  him  popular,  and  the  older  doctors 
had  been  very  cordial  to  him,  even  while 
they  laughed  a  little  at  his  very  progressive 
ways  and  modern  sanitary  notions. 

Every  one  in  'Greenville  was  glad  when  he 
married  Molly  Graham,  for  she  was  as  pop- 
ular in  her  way  as  he  was  in  his. 

.  She  did  not  live  in  Greenville,  but  had 
come  there  for  several  summers,  to  visit  her 
old  school-mate,  Anna  Carter.  She  was  an 
orphan,  with  a  little  sum  of  money,  which 
had  been  enough  to  clothe  and  educate  her, 
and  she  had  stayed  at  her  boarding-school 
after  she  was  graduated,  teaching  the  younger 
classes.  She  was  very  pretty,  though  with 
a  delicate,  undecided  sort  of  prettiness,  that 


A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED.  Q 

might  possibly  develop  as  she  grew  older 
into  real  beauty,  or  might  on  the  contrary 
disappear  entirely.  She  was  a  great  favorite, 
and  had  many  friends  and  at  least  two  lovers 
in  Greenville  ;  but  though  John  Carter  was 
financially  a  much  better  match  than  Dr. 
Tracy,  Molly  had  not  hesitated  a  minute 
between  •  love  and  money.  Her  marriage 
was  for  her  as  full  of  sentiment  as  any  ro- 
mance that  the  poets  sing  about.  She  told 
Anna  Carter  that  she  would  rather  marry 
Irving  Tracy  and  live  in  a  hut  on  the  prairie, 
than  marry  any  other  man  she  knew ;  and 
Anna  was  not  unkind  enough  to  remind  her 
that  she  knew  few  men  anyway,  and  had 
never  been  in,  much  less  lived  in,  a  hut,  or 
on  a  prairie. 

Irving  loved  her  in  the  intense,  whole- 
hearted, devoted  way,  that  is  just  at  present 
a  little  out  of  fashion.  She  was  for  him  "  the 
world's  one  woman."  He  could  no  more 
have  analyzed  his  emotions  concerning  her 
than  he  could  have  criticised  Molly  herself. 
That  she  should  love  him,  seemed  to  him  as 
surprising  as  it  was  beatific ;  but  that  loving 
him  she  should  marry  him,  not  only  will- 
ingly, but  gladly,  in  spite  of  his  poverty,  did 
not  seem  to  him  strange  at  all. 


IO  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

"  I  'm  afraid  we  '11  be  poor,  Molly,  for  a 
few  years,"  said  he,  "  but  if  I  only  have  you, 
I  have  everything  in  the  world  I  want ;  "  and 
he  meant  every  word  he  said. 

In  fact,  Molly  and  he  were  so  much  in  love 
with  each  other,  and  seemed  to  care  so  little 
about  their  slim  purses,  that  some  older 
people,  who  had  tried  the  experiment  of  liv- 
ing on  bread  and  cheese  and  kisses,  watched 
them  with  pity  and  envy. 

Irving  rented  a  small  picturesque  cottage, 
painted  red,  with  olive-green  blinds,  and 
drew  upon  his  slender  store  to  furnish  it. 
Molly  took  a  part  of  her  money,  too,  and 
together  they  made  the  little  home  very 
bright  and  cosey. 

She  gave  pretty  little  dinners  and  jolly 
little  luncheons.  At  her  first  dinner  she  for- 
got to  have  the  legs  of  her  turkey  tied  down, 
and  it  kicked  wildly  into  Judge  Carter's  digni- 
fied face,  but  the  spray  of  golden-rod  beside 
his  plate  ought  to  have  made  up  to  him  for 
that.  The  macaroni  was  badly  burnt  too  ; 
but  it  was  served  in  the  scooped-out  half  of 
a  cheese,  and  the  guests  eyed  it  suspiciously 
and  ate  it  warily.  When  guests  act  like  that, 
a  hostess  always  feels  that  she  has  at  least 
furnished  a  novelty,  and  Molly  regarded  the 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  II 

macaroni  as  a  success,  in  spite  of  its  burnt 
flavor.  So  the  law  of  compensation  pre- 
vailed in  Molly's  household,  and  the  young 
people  of  Greenville  found  it  charming.  A 
few  of  the  older  ones  thought  it  would  be 
just  as  well  if  it  were  not  quite  so  free  and 
easy,  and  Mrs.  Scofield,  the  wife  of  the  Pres- 
byterian minister,  plainly  said  it  would  be 
better  if  Molly  knew  "  more  about  cooking 
and  less  about  decorating."  She  said  this 
spitefully,  in  nasal  tones,  for  she  had  taken 
an  awful  cold  at  Molly's  last  dinner,  from 
sitting  near  the  pantry  door.  There  was  a 
small  Japanese  screen  in  front  of  it^  which 
did  not  keep  out  the  draught,  and  Mr. 
Scofield  at  the  same  time  contracted  bron- 
chitis, from  being  backed  up  against  the 
grate,  where  his  back  was  nearly  broiled. 
Molly's  dining-room  was  small ;  but  she  did 
the  best  that  she  could  with  her  guests,  and 
seldom  injured  two  members  of  a  family  at 
one  time. 

Irving  was  very  proud  of  her,  and  thought 
her  a  wonderful  housekeeper  and  manager. 
He  was  as  much  in  love  as  when  he  married 
her,  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  detected  a 
few  weak  spots  in  her  character ;  but  he 
treated  them  as  a  good  skater  does  thin  ice,  — 


12  A    WOMAN    WHO  FAILED. 

glided  over  them  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
tried  in  each  instance  not  to  go  near  that 
place  again. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year  things  began 
to  wear  out  in  the  Tracys'  home.  Many  of 
the  wedding-presents,  which  had  done  so 
much  toward  beautifying  it,  were  broken, 
and  others  had  lost  their  freshness. 

The  pretty  cretonne,  which  Molly  had  used 
so  lavishly  for  curtains  and  upholstery,  had 
faded,  and  the  colored  Canton  flannel,  which 
had  supplemented  cretonne,  looked  even 
more  forlorn.  It  had  faded  and  fuzzed  up 
too.  T,he  carpets  were  beginning  to  be  a 
little  shabby,  and  the  cheap  furniture,  which 
had  been  so  pretty  when  new,  looked  rather 
banged  and  marred.  A  good  deal  of  the 
damage  was  due  to  the  baby,  who  was  of  a 
particularly  destructive  variety.  He  loved 
to  try  to  pull  himself  up  by  the  small  tables, 
which  he  only  succeeded  in  tipping  over  on 
top  of  him  with  all  that  they  held.  He  was 
large  and  active,  and  kicked  things  a  good 
deal,  and  for  a  child  who  was  kept  reasonably 
clean,  it  seemed  as  if  he  left  the  most  extra- 
ordinary number  of  dirty  finger-marks  around. 
He  was  always  under-foot,  for  they  could  not 
afford  a  nurse,  and  Molly  had  attempted  to 
take  care  of  him  herself. 


A    WOMAN   WHO   FAILED.  13 

They  were  still  poor,  and  seemed  to  grow 
poorer.  Irving  Tracy  had  not  succeeded  as 
well  as  he  hoped.  It  was  not  his  fault;  he 
had  worked  early  and  late,  but  two  new 
physicians  had  come  to  Greenville,  and  there 
were  so  many  there  now,  that  practice  was 
very  much  divided.  Then,  too,  he  worked 
a  great  deal  among  the  poor,  where  he  got 
little  or  no  pay ;  and  although  many  a  time 
he  resolved  that  he  would  not  give  away  his 
services  again,  —  that  he  owed  it  to  himself 
not  to  do  thus,  —  yet  he  found,  when  some 
poor  Irishwoman  sent  for  him  in  her  hour 
of  trial,  or  some  day-laborer  on  the  railroad 
broke  his  leg,  that  he  forgot  his  resolutions, 
and  took  as  good  care  of  the  sufferers  as  if 
they  were  the  best-paying  patients  on  his 
books. 

He  had  a  brother  in  Missouri,  a  farmer, 
whose  farm  was  mortgaged.  This  brother 
was  sick  for  a  long  time  and  could  not  pay 
his  interest,  and  his  farm  was  threatened  with 
foreclosure.  He  wrote  to  Irving  about  it, 
and  he  and  Molly  agreed  that  they  must 
help.  It  was  a  hard  pull  for  them  ;  but  if 
they  did  not  do  it,  the  brother  would  lose 
everything. 

Then,  spite  of  Molly's  managing,  all   the 


14  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

household  expenses  had  been  larger  than 
they  had  expected.  All  these  causes  had 
kept  them  poor,  and  at  the  end  of  two  years 
Irving  Tracy  felt  like  a  strong  swimmer  who 
is  getting  a  little  tired  struggling  against  the 
tide,  or  like  a  soldier  who  has  fought  for 
hours  and  finds  the  combat  as  thick  around 
him  as  though  just  begun. 

Molly  had  grown  very  quiet.  The  gloss 
was  wearing  off  more  things  than  the  furni- 
ture. She  was  disappointed,  and  in  her  heart 
she  blamed  her  husband.  She  still  loved  him, 
but  it  was  not  —  as  she  herself  had  found 
out  —  with  the  love  that  "  beareth  all  things, 
believeth  all  things,  and  hopeth  all  things." 

It  had  been  rather  pleasant  to  manage  her 
little  home  at  first  and  contrive  pretty  effects 
on  a  small  outlay,  with  her  girl  friends  as  an 
admiring  audience  and  Irving  as  a  humble, 
adoring  subject.  But  the  pinch  of  poverty 
seemed  to  have  tightened  into  a  steady 
grip.  The  baby  was  a  great  disturber,  for 
Molly  was  not  fond  of  children.  She  had 
not  the  knack  of  systematizing  and  order- 
ing her  household  so  that  things  fitted  in. 
The  baby  did  not  fit  in  anywhere,  or  with 
anything  else.  Molly,  as  she  said,  "just  had 
to  let  things  go  and  take  care  of  him."  This 


A    WOMAN   WHO   FAILED.  15 

"  letting  go  "  was  not  a  very  satisfactory  pro- 
cess. Molly  gave  fewer  dinners  now,  and 
those  she  did  give  were  apt  to  be  rather  jerky 
and  spasmodic.  The  baby  once  woke  up 
during  one,  and  screamed  so  that  he  had  to 
come  to  the  table  in  his  night-gown. 

Molly  cried  after  this  dinner,  and  said  she 
would  never  give  another.  She  said  there 
was  "  no  use  in  trying  to  do  anything  or  be 
anybody ; "  and  then  she  thumped  the  baby 
rather  hard,  and  immediately  repented  and 
kissed  him,  while  Irving  watched  her,  feeling 
like  a  guilty  thing,  and  as  if  he  were  person- 
ally responsible  for  it  all. 

She  sat  waiting  for  her  husband  one  night. 
She  was  ripping  up  an  old  dress,  and  doing  it 
with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  for  the  baby 
was  asleep  in  his  carriage  in  front  of  her. 
She  had  a  long  string  tied  to  the  handle 
of  the  carriage,  and  if  he  moved  or  cried 
she  shoved  the  carriage  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room  and  drew  it  back  again  by  the 
string. 

Irving's  supper  was  keeping  hot  and  drying 
up,  on  a  plate  in  the  heater,  and  his  place 
was  set  on  the  dining-room  table.  He  had 
gone  to  a  medical  convention,  but  she  ex- 
pected him  home  to-night. 


1 6  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

Presently  she  heard  his  step,  and  the  front 
door  opened  with  a  bang. 

"  Well,  Molly,"  he  began,  as  he  came  in  ; 
but  she  said  "  hush,"  and  held  up  a  warning 
hand,  and  sent  the  baby  on  a  flying  trip 
across  the  room. 

When  one  comes  in  out  of  the  cold,  pre- 
pared to  give  or  receive  a  cordial  greeting, 
there  is  something  very  subduing  and  de- 
pressing in  a  hushed  voice.  One  cannot  be 
hearty  in  a  whisper. 

He  came  around  the  table  and  kissed  Molly 
quietly. 

"  You  have  n't  had  your  supper,  have 
you?"  she  asked  softly.  "I  will  get  it  for 
you." 

She  left  the  room,  and  soon  motioned  for 
him  to  come.  She  sat  down  beside  him  while 
he  ate. 

"  Well,"  she  asked,  "  how  did  the  conven- 
tion go?  " 

"  Oh,  well  enough,"  he  tried  to  answer 
carelessly,  but  she  instantly  detected  the 
effort. 

"  Did  anything  happen? "she asked  quickly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  doggedly,  "I  had  a 
row  with  Dr.  Porter." 

"  Oh,  Irving !  "  she  gasped,  "  what  about?  " 


A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED.  lj 

"  Well,  it  was  the  old  feud  between  the  old 
and  new  code.  The  discussion  broke  out 
fiercely.  I  cannot  believe  as  they  do ;  I  will 
not  be  bound  by  their  prejudices.  Dr.  Porter 
called  me  a  name  and  spoke  to  me  in  a  tone 
he  had  no  business  to  use,  and  I  answered 
him.  I  cannot  help  it  if  he  is  the  oldest,  most 
influential  doctor  in  the  State;  I  cannot  let 
anybody  scold  me  as  if  I  were  a  schoolboy." 

"  Oh,  Irving!  "  she  said  again. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  was  injudicious  and  all 
that;  but,  Molly,  you  want  me  to  speak  the 
truth,  don't  you?  If  I  cannot  believe  a  thing, 
you  don't  want  me  to  sit  still  and  pretend  I 
do,  just  for  the  sake  of  my  practice?  " 

"  No,  Irving,"  she  said  sadly,  "  I  want  you 
to  do  always  what  you  think  is  right."  But 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  quaver  in 
her  voice  when  she  spoke. 

"  Poor  little  Molly!  "  he  said  gently;  "you 
have  had  a  hard  time,  little  girl,  and  I  'm 
sorry  for  you."  He  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  smoothed  her  hair.  She  began  to  cry 
softly,  for  she  was  one  of  those  women  who 
cry  easily.  He  had  thought  it  very  touching 
and  pathetic  at  first,  but  it  tired  him  a  little 
now. 

They  went  back  into  the  room  where  the 


1 8  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

baby  was,  and  sat  down.  Molly  took  up  her 
ripping  again.  Her  husband  looked  at  her 
earnestly. 

"  Molly,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you  did  n't  feel 
so  blue  over  this.  It  won't  hurt  me  much 
if  I  am  not  on  speaking  terms  with  Dr. 
Porter." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Come,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  we  've  had 
an  awfully  tough  time,  Molly,  I  know;  but 
we  've  got  each  other  and  the  little  fellow 
there,  and  if  we  only  keep  close  together, 
I  'm  sure  we  '11  pull  through  yet." 

Molly  had  found  a  thread  that  ripped,  and 
was  pulling  it  out  intently.  She  did  not 
answer,  but  her  lip  quivered. 

"  If  you  would  only  have  a  little  faith, 
Molly,  you  don't  know  how  it  would  help 
me." 

"  Have  faith  in  what  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Why,  in  everything,  —  in  our  life,  in  our 
love,  in  me.  I  'm  not  going  to  grub  along 
like  this  always.  I  'm  sure  to  succeed  some 
time,  —  any  man.  who  tries  as  hard  and  as 
faithfully  as  I  do,  will.  I  shall  be  able  to 
make  a  place  in  the  world  for  myself  and 
for  you  too,  Molly.  Sometime  I  shall  give 


A    WOMAN    WHO   FAILED.  19 

you  all  the  things  you  want,  —  money,  posi- 
tion, and  a  beautiful  home." 

Her  sad  face  brightened  a  little.  "  Oh, 
you  really  think  you  will  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Think?  I  know  it,"  he  said  with  deci- 
sion ;  "  but  you  must  help  me,  Molly." 

"  How  can  I  help  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  by  loving  me,  and  being  always 
sweet  and  cheerful.  If  I  could  see  your 
face  as  bright  as  it  was  when  I  married  you, 
it  would  be  worth  everything  to  me." 

He  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  added : 

"  I  don't  know ;  perhaps  I  'm  a  weak  sort 
of  man,  after  all ;  but  you  can  do  anything 
with  me,  Molly.  When  I  feel  that  you  are 
happy  and  have  faith  in  me,  I  am  strong  and 
full  of  courage,  —  I  can  slay  my  thousands, 
like  David ;  but  when  you  get  blue  and  sad 
and  hopeless,  I  feel  as  if  life  wasn't  worth 
living.  I  love  you  too  much,  little  girl; 
that's  the  trouble." 

Molly  smiled  ;  she  liked  to  be  adored. 
"  I  will  try,  Irving,"  she  said,  "  to  have  more 
faith  and  hope." 

She  meant  to  try,  and  for  a  while  she  did  ; 
but  she  was  one  of  those  women  who  see 
plainly  what  is  right,  and  yet  have  not  the 
strength  to  do  it.  Her  theories  and  ideals 


2O  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

were  the  highest  and  purest,  but  she  seldom 
was  able  to  translate  them  into  everyday 
action. 

In  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  Molly  Tracy 
might  have  gone  to  the  stake  as  a  martyr  ; 
but  she  could  not  master  and  control  herself 
enough  to  be  always  a  pleasant  person  to 
live  with.  She  looked  back  upon  her  girl- 
hood, and  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that 
she  was  the  same  woman ;  she  was  so  differ- 
ent from  what  she  had  thought  she  would  be. 
She  was  disappointed  in  herself,  and  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  not  succeeded  was 
a  constant  source  of  depression.  She  had 
meant  to  be  an  ideal  wife,  but  the  character 
was  more  difficult  than  she  thought ;  she 
had  meant  to  be  an  ideal  mother,  but  she 
had  not  counted  on  the  hundred  little  daily 
acts  of  patience  and  unselfishness  that  it 
implied.  The  poor  little  baby  was  some- 
times jerked  and  twitched,  not  that  Molly 
did  not  love  it,  or  that  she  meant  to  be 
unkind,  but  she  was  nervous,  impatient,  and 
often  very  tired.  She  gave  Irving  a  curt, 
sharp  word  now  and  then,  but  oftener  she 
was  stonily  silent  with  him. 

Molly  believed  that  no  character  stands 
still,  that  every  success  strengthens,  as  every 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  21 

defeat  weakens  it ;  and  it  was  with  shame  and 
despair  that  she  saw  quite  clearly  that  she 
had  not  only  fallen  short  of  all  her  aspira- 
tions, but  that  she  was  daily  growing  to  be 
a  poorer  sort  of  woman,  less  and  less  capable 
of  ever  reaching  them. 

She  and  her  husband  had  had  many  such 
talks,  and  they  always  ended  as  this  had 
done,  in  his  trying  to  help  and  encourage 
her.  He  felt  vaguely  that  his  married  life 
was  not  all  that  he  had  hoped  ;  but  he  com- 
forted himself  with  the  thought  that  when 
they  had  once  passed  beyond  these  troubled 
waters  and  had  come  to  smoother  sailing,  all 
would  go  well. 

But  in  spite  of  his  most  earnest  efforts 
he  did  not  get  on.  His  quarrel  with  Dr. 
Porter  affected  his  practice ;  conservative 
people  were  a  little  shy  of  trusting  the  care 
of  their  health  to  a  young  man  who  had 
openly  placed  himself  in  opposition  to  the 
oldest  practitioners  in  that  part  of  the  State. 
Then,  Irving's  manner,  which  had  formerly 
been  so  pleasant,  was  now  sometimes  objec- 
tionable. There  is  no  profession  that  de- 
pends so  much  upon  a  man's  personality  as 
that  of  a  physician.  He  must  be  always 
attentive  and  sympathetic,  always  encour- 


22  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

aging  and  cheerful ;  he  must  never  seem  to 
think  of  himself,  or  to  have  any  interests  out- 
side of  his  patients'  symptoms. 

Irving,  while  he  was  brave  before  Molly 
for  her  sake,  had  many  an  hour  of  discour- 
agement and  gloom,  and  was  apt  when  des- 
pondent to  turn  off  uninteresting  cases  with 
the  few  curt  words  which  were  all  that 
seemed  absolutely  necessary. 

His  patients  complained,  not  that  he  did 
not  cure  them,  but  that  he  seemed  to  take 
no  interest  in  them. 

It  was  about  three  years  after  their  mar- 
riage, and  when  the  second  baby  was  only 
a  few  weeks  old,  that  the  bank  in  New  York 
in  which  Molly's  little  fortune  was,  suddenly 
failed.  Irving  did  not  let  her  know  at  first ; 
but  when  she  was  stronger  he  told  her  as 
gently  as  he  could. 

It  was  a  great  blow  for  poor  Molly,  and 
she  cried  until  the  soft  head  of  the  little  baby 
in  her  arms  was  quite  wet. 

"  Molly,"  said  her  husband,  "  suppose  we 
move  away  from  Greenville ;  we  Ve  had  bad 
luck  ever  since  we  Ve  lived  here.  Suppose  we 
leave  it  behind,  and  try  again  in  a  new  place." 

He  said  this  partly  because  he  really 
thought  that  they  might  better  their  fortunes 


A    WOMAN   WHO   FAILED.  2$ 

by  moving,  and  partly  because  he  fancied 
that  since  they  had  grown  so  poor,  Molly 
shrunk  from  meeting  her  old  friends,  and 
that  old  associations  gave  her  more  pain 
than  pleasure. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  asked  Molly,  hope- 
lessly. 

"  Suppose  we  try  Pittsburgh ;  it  is  a  larger, 
busier  place,  and  I  have  friends  there.  Molly, 
I  think  you  would  like  it  better." 

"  It  is  all  the  same  to  me,"  said  Molly.  "  I 
only  wish  I  could  go  to  my  grave  and  be 
done  with  it." 

"  Oh,  Molly,  how  can  you  talk  like  that !  " 
he  said ;  "  you  don't  know  how  you  hurt  me." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  you,"  she  said 
wearily ;  "  but  I  am  tired  out.  It  is  struggle, 
struggle,  struggle,  and  I  don't  see  any  light 
ahead.  It  seems  as  if  there  was  a  curse 
resting  on  us.  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  it  all, 
and  I  wish  it  were  ended." 

He  turned  very  white.  When  a  woman 
says  such  things  as  these  to  the  man  who 
loves  her,  she  kills  not  only  his  happiness, 
but  his  love. 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Molly,"  he  said  hus- 
kily ;  "  it  is  the  same  as  saying  that  you  wish 
you  had  never  married  me." 


24  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Molly,  desperately. 

He  looked  at  her  sadly.  "  Poor  Molly !  " 
he  said,  and  then,  after  standing  silent  for 
a  few  moments,  he  left  her.  He  did  not 
kiss  her  when  he  went,  and  she  did  not 
miss  it. 

They  moved  to  Pittsburgh,  and  rented  a 
little  house  there.  It  was  not  as  pretty  as 
the  one  in  Greenville,  and  their  furniture  did 
not  look  as  well  in  it.  The  walls  were  shabby, 
and  in  one  room  discolored ;  but  the  land- 
lord would  not  fix  them,  and  Irving  could 
not  afford  to.  Their  carpets  did  not  fit,  and 
were  eked  out  here  and  there  with  strips  of 
oil-cloth.  They  did  not  have  curtains  at  all 
the  windows,  and  Molly  did  not  take  very 
much  pride  in  arranging  things.  She  was, 
as  she  had  said,  "  tired  out."  She  econo- 
mized, but  it  was  the  uncompromising  econ- 
omy that  simply  goes  without  things,  —  not 
the  cheerful  kind,  that  takes  second  and  third 
best,  and  so  manipulates  and  disguises  that  it 
seems  to  make  the  best  out  of  them. 

Molly  moved  in  a  very  gray  atmosphere. 
She  woke  with  a  heavy  sense  of  depression, 
that  hung  over  and  clung  around  her  all  day. 
She  felt  that  Fate  had  somehow  played  her 
a  malicious  trick,  and  she  had  moments  of 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  1$ 

blind  rage,  in  which  she  hated  life  and  every- 
thing in  it.  Nothing  was  as  she  wanted,  but 
the  bitterness  of  it  lay  in  her  own  conviction 
that,  after  all,  the  defeat  was  in  her  own  char- 
acter. She  had  always  thought  that  in  any 
crisis  she  would  be  a  brave  woman.  She 
believed,  even  now,  that  she  could  have  en- 
dured a  sharp,  keen  sorrow,  like  death,  with 
heroism.  The  trouble  was  that  her  crisis 
was  a  prolongation. 

She  was  young  and  well;  her  children 
were  lovable  and  attractive ;  her  husband 
loved  her,  and  if  the  flame  of  his  love  burned 
faintly,  she  knew  it  was  she  herself  who  had 
dimmed  it,  and  she  knew,  too,  that  she  had 
the  power  to  fan  it  into  brightness  again. 
She  felt  that  a  stronger,  truer  woman  would 
have  taken  the  despised  material  of  her  life 
and  woven  it  into  a  fabric  bright  and  beau- 
tiful. She  knew  that  many  another  woman 
who  had  all  for  which  she  yearned  would 
have  envied  her. 

"  Yes,  I  have  all  the  essentials  of  happi- 
ness," she  said  wearily  to  herself;  but  yet 
she  was  very  miserable.  She  indulged  in 
vague  day-dreams  of  what  her  life  might 
have  been  if  she  had  married  some  one  else, 
and  then  she  would  rouse  herself  with  a 


26  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

shock  and  realize  that  in  thought  she  was 
untrue  to  her  husband. 

Meanwhile  the  success  which  Molly  had 
given  up  expecting  did  not  come  to  them  in 
Pittsburgh.  Irving  grew  thin  and  haggard. 
He  worked  hard,  but  it  was  with  the  energy 
of  a  desperate  man,  and  no  longer  with  the 
zeal  of  a  hopeful  one. 

He  and  Molly  never  quarrelled,  but  they 
rarely  talked  to  each  other  at  all.  She  went 
her  way  and  he  his,  each  silent,  gloomy,  de- 
pressed. Now  and  then  he  tried  to  break 
through  the  ice  floes  which  seemed  to  have 
drifted  close  around  and  frozen  up  his  soul ; 
but  Molly  never  responded  to  these  efforts, 
and  they  grew  less  and  less  frequent. 

He  had  ceased  to  expect  help  or  encour- 
agement in  his  home.  The  very  thought  of 
his  wife  dragged  on  him  sometimes  like  a 
ball  and  chain ;  and  yet  he  had  not  acknow- 
ledged to  himself  that  he  no  longer  loved 
Molly.  He  was  very  sorry  for  her,  and  bit- 
terly self-accusing  when  he  thought  of  all 
that  she  had  suffered. 

He  did  not  drink,  as  some  men  would  have 
done;  but  once  or  twice  when  his  mental 
distress  was  aggravated  by  physical  pain,  he 
took  opium.  "  I  sha'n't  have  that  young 


A    WOMAN    WHO  FAILED.  2/ 

Dr.  Tracy  again,"  said  one  young  mother  to 
another.  "  He  came  yesterday  to  see  Ethel's 
sore  throat,  and  gave  her  some  medicine  in 
a  glass  ;  and  after  he  'd  got  away  out  to  the 
gate,  he  came  all  the  way  back  to  see  if  it 
was  right.  Now,  a  man  that's  as  absent- 
minded  as  that  isn't  fit  to  be  trusted  with 
children." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  her  hearer  ;  "  and  he 
asked  me  yesterday  how  my  little  girl  was. 
I  should  think  if  any  one  ought  to  know 
that  the  baby  is  a  boy,  he  ought." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  treats  his  wife  well, 
either ;  she  's  the  glummest-looking  thing  !  " 

There  were  many  such  talks  as  these,  and 
though  they  were  but  idle  breath,  they  blew 
Irving  Tracy  no  good. 

He  came  home  one  night,  tired  and  pre- 
occupied. He  had  a  very  sick  patient,  a 
young  girl,  who  was  the  only  daughter  of 
the  most  prominent  merchant  in  Pittsburgh. 

Molly  was  unusually  quiet,  but  she  said  to 
him  after  supper,  — 

"  Irving,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Can  you 
stay  a  little  while  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  listlessly,  and  sat  down. 

She  came  beside  him. 


28  A    WOMAN   WHO   FAILED. 

"Irving,"  she  said,  "  John  Carter  was  here 
to-day." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  want?  " 

"  He  came  to  see  me."  She  paused,  and 
twisted  her  fingers  nervously.  "  I  am  telling 
you  this,  Irving,  because  it  is  right  that  you 
should  know.  He  was  in  love  with  me 
before  we  were  married,  you  know,  and  he 
said  things  to  me  to-day — I  let  him  say 
them  —  that  no  man  has  a  right  to  say  to 
another  man's  wife." 

Irving  looked  at  her  fixedly.  "  What  are 
you  talking  about?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Irving,  do  not  look  at  me  like  that," 
she  cried.  "  I  have  been  a  weak  woman  and 
a  poor,  unworthy  wife,  but  I  am  not  wicked." 
She  looked  at  him  pleadingly ;  but  he  took 
no  notice  of  her,  and  after  a  few  seconds  she 
went  on,  nervously :  — 

"  He  told  me  to-day  that  if  I  had  let  him 
shape  my  life,  he  would  have  made  it  very 
happy,  and  that  all  my  poverty  and  hardship 
had  made  him  suffer  whenever  he  thought  of 
it,  because  I  was  not  fitted  or  made  for  it. 
I  let  him  say  it;  I  did  not  answer  him,  but 
afterward,  when  it  was  too  late,  I  knew  that 
I  had  done  wrong,  —  knew  that  he  had  no 
right  to  speak  to  me  like  that,  and  I  thought 


A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED.  2g 

at  least  I  could  be  true  enough  to  tell  you, 
and  let  you  know  just  how  bad  I  am."  She 
stopped  tearfully. 

She  could  come  to  her  husband  with  such 
a  confession  as  this,  for  she  was  not  afraid  of 
him,  and  it  required  but  the  one  effort  of 
self-abasement;  but  she  had  not  been  able 
to  keep  out  of  her  mind  the  daily  vision  of 
what  life  might  have  been  if  she  had  married 
another  man. 

Irving  had  listened  as  if  he  scarcely  heard 
her.  He  was  surprised  that  he  did  not  seem 
to  care.  It  only  showed  how  far  apart  he  and 
Molly  had  drifted  that  he  did  not  mind  more. 

"  Well,  Molly,"  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "  I 
guess  he  was  right.  It 's  all  been  a  wretched 
bungling  business ;  but  we  must  try  to  make 
the  best  of  it  for  the  children's  sake." 

He  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Oh,  Irving,"  she  sobbed,  "  don't  go.  Tell 
me  that  you  forgive  me  —  tell  me  that  you 
despise  me !  " 

He  laughed  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"  Which  do  you  prefer?     I  can't  do  both." 

But  Molly  did  not  answer.  She  had  thrown 
herself  upon  the  sofa  and  was  crying  bitterly. 

He  looked  at  her  gloomily,  and  a  little 
contemptuously;  then,  without  speaking,  went 


3O  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

out  in  the  hall  and  put  on  his  overcoat. '  At 
the  hall  door  he  hesitated,  turned,  and  came 
back. 

"  Come,  Molly,"  he  said,  touching  her 
shoulder,  "  don't  despair.  I  Ve  had  a  faint 
ray  of  light  to-day.  The  "  Medical  Gazette  "  is 
going  to  take  my  article  on  diphtheria  and 
pay  me  for  it.  I  think  luck  is  going  to  turn, 
and  we  '11  be  happy  yet." 

His  voice  was  hard  and  hopeless,  and  she 
knew  there  was  no  heart  in  what  he  said.  So 
he  left  her.  She  lay  still  and  cried  miserably 
for  a  long  time.  It  was  late  when  he  came 
home,  but  she  had  not  gone  to  bed.  He 
seemed  nervous  and  excited. 

"  Miss  Simpson  is  dead,"  he  said. 

"  When  did  she  die?  "  asked  Molly. 

"  She  was  dead  when  I  got  there  to-night ; 
they  had  just  sent  for  me ;  it  was  very 
sudden,"  and  he  walked  about  the  room 
restlessly. 

The  next  morning,  as  Molly  sat  at  the 
sewing-machine,  Irving  came  home.  It  was 
an  unusual  thing  for  him  to  do  in  the  morning, 
and  she  was  surprised  when  she  heard  his 
step.  He  came  straight  to  the  room  where 
she  was,  and  stood  before  her.  He  held  a 
newspaper  in  his  hand. 


A    WOMAN   WHO   2- A I  LED.  31 

"  Molly,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  husky 
"  Molly,  they  say  that  I  killed  Ida  Simpson." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  heavy  doubting 
eyes.  If  she  could,  even  then,  at  that  late 
day,  have  gone  to  him  and  thrown  her  arms 
around  him  ;  if  she  could  have  shown  him  by 
look  or  word  that  her  love  would  never 
believe  anything  against  him,  whatever  the 
rest  of  the  world  might  say,  —  she  might  have 
saved  him.  But  she  could  not ;  she  waited 
stolidly. 

There  were  beads  of  perspiration  on  his 
forehead,  and  his  hands  shook  as  he  tried  to 
find  the  place  in  the  paper. 

"  See,  there  it  is.  They  say  I  gave  her  too 
much  morphine,"  and  he  looked  at  Molly, 
beseechingly. 

She  took  the  paper  mechanically.  Here 
then  had  come  the  last  cruel  blow  of  fate. 
She  glanced  over  the  paragraph.  It  was  an 
inflammatory  article  denouncing  Irving  Tracy, 
and  accusing  him  of  having  heedlessly  caused 
the  death  of  his  young  patient.  It  was  evi- 
dently written  by  a  physician,  and  was  very 
bitter  and  scathing  in  tone. 

Molly  read  it  hastily.  "  Oh,  Irving  !  "  she 
cried  —  and  the  paper  fell  to  the  floor  — "  why 
did  you  do  it?" 


32  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

He  staggered  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 
"  My  God !  "  he  gasped,  and  put  both  hands 
to  his  eyes.  He  took  them  down  and  looked 
at  her  once,  and  opened  his  mouth  as  if  he 
were  going  to  speak.  Then  he  left  the  room 
and  went  heavily  down  the  stairs. 

He  had  come  to  her  in  this,  the  most 
terrible  moment  of  his  life,  forgetting  all  that 
lay  between  them,  and  only  feeling  in  a  blind 
way  that  it  is  to  his  home  and  to  his  wife  that 
a  man  goes  at  such  a  time;  and  she  had 
failed  him.  She  had  sided  with  his  accusers ; 
she  had  believed  them;  she  had  not  even 
asked  if  what  they  said  was  false. 

He  walked  down  to  his  office  as  if  he  were 
drunk.  He  sat  down  by  the  window  and 
gazed  stupidly  out  for  some  time.  Then  he 
took  a  little  key  from  his  pocket  and  went  to 
his  desk.  He  opened  a  lower  drawer  and 
took  out  a  small,  bright  object,  as  pretty  as  a 
toy.  It  was  a  revolver.  He  bowed  his  head 
on  his  arms  over  the  desk,  and  sat  there  with 
the  cold  handle  of  the  revolver  gradually 
growing  warm  in  his  palm. 

He  did  not  think  of  Molly,  or  of  his  chil- 
dren, with  their  heritage  of  shame.  His  mind 
was  full  of  shuddering  dread  and  horror  of 
what  he  was  about  to  do.  He  was  a  brave 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  33 

man,  but  this  death  was  terrible.  He  turned 
in  the  shadow  of  it,  and  looked  at  his  life.  It 
lay  before  him,  darker  and  more  hopeless 
than  the  grave.  His  grasp  on  his  revolver 
tightened.  He  was  nerved  and  ready.  There 
came  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  daily  habit 
of  welcoming  eagerly  the  few  patients  who 
came  to  him  was  so  strong,  that  he  put  down 
his  revolver,  and  hastily  replacing  it  in  the 
drawer,  opened  the  door.  A  woman  stood 
there,  who  spoke  quickly  as  soon  as  she  saw 
him. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Tracy,"  she  said,  "  I  have  come 
across  from  father's  office  to  offer  you  our 
sympathy  in  this  cruel,  unjust  attack  that  has 
been  made  upon  you,  and  to  tell  you  that  if 
you  are  going  to  take  counsel,  father  would 
be  glad  to  give  you  his  services  as  a  friend." 

Irving  looked  at  her  wildly.  He  could  not 
understand.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  lips 
were  dry  and  parched.  He  knew  her,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  he  had  met  her  in  another  world. 
She  was  Miss  Spalding,  and  her  father  was 
considered  the  best  lawyer  in  Pittsburgh; 
but  why  had  she  come  to  him  now  with  this 
voice  of  pity?  What  was  she  talking  about, 
—  sympathy?  For  him? 

He  tried  to  find  a  voice. 
3 


34  A     WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  I 
did  not  understand."  Then,  in  the  same 
dazed  way,  he  added  :  "  Will  you  come  in?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  entered. 
There  was  a  little  confusion  in  her  manner 
now,  and  the  color  came  in  her  cheeks. 

"  My  father,  Mr.  Spalding,"  she  began,  "  is 
very  sorry  such  an  attack  has  been  made 
upon  you,  and  he  will  act  for  you  if  you  want 
to  bring  suit.  He  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that 
he,  that  we  "  —  her  voice  faltered  —  "  that  we 
respect  —  Oh,  it  is  too  bad,  I  am  so  sorry, 
sorry !" 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  she  looked 
at  him  appealingly.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
he  were  made  of  stone.  He  watched  her 
without  moving. 

"Are  you  crying  for  me?"  he  asked, 
curiously. 

She  looked  up  indignantly,  but  in  his  hag- 
gard face  and  dull,  sad  eyes,  she  read  the 
man's  utter  desperation.  She  saw  the  gleam 
of  the  revolver  in  the  drawer,  which  was  not 
entirely  shut.  She  took  in  each  detail  of  the 
poorly  furnished  office,  and  the  tragedy  of  his 
life  lay  bare  before  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "  I  am  crying  for 
you."  Then  she  smiled  a  little  through  her 


A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED.  35 

tears.  "  It  is  silly  of  me,  is  n't  it,  but  I  feel 
as  if  I  knew  you  very  well,  —  better  than  you 
know  me.  I  know  how  hard  and  faithfully 
you  have  worked,  how  good  you  have  been 
to  the  poor  and  helpless.  It  is  almost  enough 
to  make  a  man  lose  faith,  is  n't  it,  when  after 
working  as  hard  as  you  have  done,  he  gets 
such  a  reward  as  this?  " 

She  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  said 
simply,  — 

"  I  have  a  brother  in  New  York  who  is  a 
doctor.  I  love  him  very  dearly,  and  I  know 
how  it  would  hurt  him  if  this  had  happened 
to  him.  I  should  tell  him.  just  as  I  tell  you, 
not  to  be  discouraged.  It  may  seem  very 
dark  and  gloomy,  but  it  will  surely  come  out 
right.  God  never  forsakes  us,  you  know. 
Just  trust  Him  a  little  longer,  and  hold  His 
hand  tight,  and  everything  will  be  well." 

He  watched  her  intently,  but  his  face  was 
as  expressionless  as  if  he  had  not  compre- 
hended a  word.  He  had,  though,  and  he  had 
a  wild  desire  to  fling  himself  on  his  knees 
before  her,  and  bury  his  face  in  her  lap  and 
cry.  Hers  was  the  first  voice  of  sympathy 
that  he  had  heard  in  years.  She  had  spoken 
mere  platitudes,  but  even  a  hopeful  word  was 
sweet  to  him.  She  might  be  feeding  him  on 


36  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

husks,  but  he  liked  the  taste.  She  looked  at 
him  a  moment,  and  said  lightly,  — 

"  Why,  I  believe  this  has  made  you  very 
down-hearted !  " 

He  nodded  his  head  —  he  could  not  speak. 

"  That  is  a  pity,"  she  said  in  the  same 
cheerful  tone,  as  if  she  were  coaxing  a  child 
to  forget  its  bumped  head.  "  Why,  I  'm  not 
sure  but  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  you  after 
all.  Father  wants  you  to  bring  suit  for  libel ; 
he  is  sure  that  he  can  recover  for  you,  and 
think  how  much  free  advertising  you  will 
get !  "  she  ended  with  a  smile. 

Then  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you." 

He  still  looked  dazed  ;  but  it  was  the  bewil- 
derment of  one  who  is  waking,  and  who  should 
recognize  the  things  about  him. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  gently  ;  "  but  you 
will  come  and  see  father;  he  is  a  good  friend 
of  yours,  and  you  have  many  others,  —  more 
I  think  than  you  know,  —  who  will  all  fight 
for  you  if  you  will  not  fight  for  yourself." 

Then  she  left  him,  and  he  closed  the  door 
after  her.  When  he  came  down  from  his  of- 
fice an  hour  afterward,  he  looked  tired  and 
old.  He  had  picked  up  the  burden  of  life 
and  bound  it  on  his  shoulders.  It  might 


A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED.  37 

crush  him,  but,  God  helping  him,  he  would 
never  try  to  throw  it  off  again. 

Later  in  the  day  he  saw  Mr.  Spalding,  and 
soon  afterward  began  his  suit  for  libel,  not  in 
a  spirit  of  rage  or  anger,  but  with  a  sort  of 
patient  dignity.  His  good  name  had  been 
blackened;  he  had  determined  to  have  it 
clean  again. 

Molly  and  he  lived  outwardly  just  as  before. 
He  never  spoke  to  her  unkindly  ;  he  even  tried 
to  cheer  and  encourage  her.  They  never 
talked  about  his  suit,  nor  the  many  cruel 
things  that  were  said  of  him ;  but  he  knew 
that  Molly  did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever 
clear  his  name  or  win  his  case.  He  felt  that 
she  looked  upon  it  all  as  a  waste  of  time. 

In  due  course  it  was  conclusively  proved 
that  Miss  Simpson  had  died  of  heart  disease, 
and  not  of  the  small  dose  of  morphine  which 
the  doctor  had  given  her  ;  and  the  newspaper 
that  had  been  so  violent  in  its  attack  upon  him 
was  forced  to  pay  him  five  thousand  dollars. 

Nothing  succeeds  like  success.  He  thought 
a  little  bitterly  that  if  one-tenth  of  the  men 
who  came  up  and  shook  his  hand  warmly, 
and  congratulated  him  when  the  verdict  was 
declared,  had  offered  him  even  the  scantiest 
sympathy  when  so  many  tongues  wagged 


38  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

against  him,  he  would  have  been  far  more 
grateful.  Before  his  innocence  was  proved 
they  had  all  eyed  him  coldly  and  with 
suspicion. 

Molly  was  glad  in  a  subdued  sort  of  way. 
She  treated  this  little  gleam  of  success  like  a 
bubble  which  might  burst  at  any  moment. 
She  had  distrusted  happiness  and  her  hus- 
band for  so  long  that  she  seemed  to  have  lost 
the  power  of  belief  in  either. 

Irving  was  asked  to  write  again  for  the 
"  Medical  Gazette,"  and  his  articles  received  a 
good  deal  of  attention.  He  had  a  number  of 
encouraging  letters  from  prominent  physi- 
cians. These  he  showed  to  Molly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  luck  is  turning.  We  are 
going  to  float  off  from  our  sand-bank  yet." 

Molly  smiled  sadly,  and  shook  her  head 
"  You  will,  Irving,  but  I  shall  not" 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  see?  '  To  him 
that  overcometh,  will  I  give  a  crown  of  life/ 
and  it 's  true  of  all  things.  It  is  those  who  over- 
come who  are  rewarded.  I  never  overcame 
anything  ;  misfortunes  always  overcame  me. 
If  I  had  been  steadfast  and  true,  and  had  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  you  in  all  our 
trouble,  then  I  might  hope  for  something 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  39 

better;  but  my  love  has  never  helped  you 
in  sorrow,  why  should  it  share  with  you  in 
happiness?" 

"  Molly,"  he  said  kindly,  "  you  are  mor- 
bid ;  "  and  yet  he  knew  that  she  spoke  the 
truth.  The  love  that  has  been  helpless  in  an 
hour  of  need,  can  never  be  much  of  a  com- 
fort to  a  man  when  life  is  pleasant. 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly,  "  you  know  it  is 
true.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  have 
helped  it  or  not.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
couldn't  Things  seemed  to  crush  me  and 
take  the  life  out  of  me.  Then  again,  I  think 
if  I  had  only  tried  a  little  harder,  if  I  had  only 
struggled  a  little  longer,  I  might  have  suc- 
ceeded. What  is  it  they  say  about  an  ac- 
tress, '  She  was  over-weighted  with  her  part '  ? 
That 's  it,  Irving  ;  I  have  been  '  over-weighted ' 
with  my  part." 

"  Molly,"  he  said,  not  impatiently,  but  with 
decision,  "  there  is  no  use  in  talking  like  that. 
We  have  both  made  mistakes.  I  have  never 
blamed  you,  but  we  must  let  the  dead  past 
bury  its  dead." 

"  It  will  bury  me  with  it,"  she  said,  under 
her  breath. 

They  were  idle  words,  and  Molly  uttered 
them  in  no  spirit  of  prophecy  ;  but  they  came 


4O  A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED. 

true,  for  not  long  after  this  talk  she  became 
ill.  It  was  only  a  bad  cold  they  thought  at 
first,  but  it  speedily  developed  into  acute 
pneumonia.  She  was  not  sick  many  days, 
and  was  unconscious  most  of  the  time. 

Irving  took  care  of  her,  tenderly  and 
anxiously.  His  early  love  came  back  in  a 
great  tidal  wave.  He  forgot  everything  else, 
and  only  remembered  how  much  he  had 
loved  her,  and  how  much  she  had  suffered. 

Something  happened  then  that  at  any 
other  time  would  have  filled  his  heart  with 
joy  and  thankfulness.  Now  he  hardly  had 
room  to  think  about  it.  He  received  a  call 
to  come  to  Philadelphia  and  take  the  chair 
of  surgery  in  the  Medical  College  there.  It 
was  a  fine  position,  with  a  good  salary,  and 
was  an  honor  seldom  offered  to  so  young  a 
man. 

He  told  Molly  of  it  in  one  of  her  few  con- 
scious moments. 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  "  when  you  get  well 
we  are  going  to  be  so  happy." 

She  smiled  fondly  and  pressed  his  hand. 
But  the  success  that  she  had  never  believed 
in  came  too  late  for  Molly;  and  when  he 
stood  by  her  bedside  after  she  died,  and 
closed  the  eyes  that  had  cried  so  much,  it 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  41 

seemed  to  Irving  Tracy  as  if  it  had  come  too 
late  for  him  too. 

He  moved  to  Philadelphia  and  took  the 
position  in  the  Medical  College  there.  He 
became  well  known  after  a  while,  and  For- 
tune, that  had  frowned  so  long,  grew  to  be 
a  very  smiling  goddess.  He  wondered  at  it 
sometimes,  —  wondered  why  it  was  that  when 
he  struggled  so  desperately,  and  would  have 
bought  success  with  his  heart's  blood,  he 
could  not  win  it,  and  now,  when  he  did  not 
try,  or  even  care  much,  everything  prospered 
with  him. 

He  was  devoted  to  his  children,  and  they 
were  a  great  source  of  comfort  and  diversion, 
while  they  grew  up  with  the  deepest  love  and 
admiration  for  their  father. 

Sometimes  the  thought  of  marrying  again 
entered  his  mind,  but  it  seemed  to  him  a  sort 
of  disloyalty  to  Molly.  She  had  borne  the 
burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  —  unwillingly, 
complainingly,  rebelliously,  perhaps,  but  still 
she  had  borne  it.  It  did  not  seem  fair  that 
another  should  share  the  reward.  He  looked 
around  his  comfortable  home,  and  longed  for 
her  to  enjoy  it  with  him.  He  thought  they 
would  have  been  so  happy  if  she  had  lived. 

As  for  the  little  woman  who  had  come  to 


42  A    WOMAN   WHO  FAILED. 

him  that  terrible  morning,  and  by  her  words 
of  sympathy  and  good  cheer  saved  his  life, 
he  sometimes  thought  of  her  wonderingly. 
But  everything  that  had  happened  then 
looked  strange  and  distorted  in  retrospect. 
He  was  not  even  sure  that  he  remembered 
the  facts  aright. 

It  was  long  before  he  saw  her  again,  and 
when  he  finally  met  her  it  was  with  the  start 
of  surprise  that  we  meet  one  whom  we  have 
thought  dead.  He  had  not  thought  her 
dead,  but  as  unreal,  belonging  only  to  that 
one  time  when  she  had  come  into  his  life. 
She  had  never  had  any  living  personality  for 
him. 

After  a  while  he  said,  — 

"  I  have  never  thanked  you  for  the  help 
you  gave  me  once.  I  do  not  believe  you 
know  how  much  you  did  for  me." 

She  smiled  brightly.  "Did  I?  I  am  very 
glad,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  and  thought  what  his  life 
might  have  been  if  he  had  had  all  through  it 
the  warm,  true  love  of  a  brave  woman.  He 
did  not  need  it  so  much  now.  And  yet  he 
was  young,  he  was  lonely  ;  perhaps  if  she 
—  and  then  his  thoughts  went  back  to 
Molly,  and  the  dismal  ending  of  his  life's 


A    WOMAN  WHO  FAILED.  43 

young   dream.      No,    he    could    not    dream 
again. 

The  woman  who  had  failed  stretched  her 
hand  from  the  grave  and  robbed  him  of  this 
possibility  of  happiness  also.  He  never  mar- 
ried again. 


A   SILENT  SOUL.1 

WE  were  spending  the  autumn  in  the 
country,  at  our  cousin  Carroll 
Fisher's.  That  is,  he  was  my  cousin,  but  no 
relation  at  all  to  Alice,  for  we  were  only  half- 
sisters.  Half-sisters !  It  seems  strange  to 
write  it,  and  it  is  always  strange  to  hear  it, 
when  I  remember  what  Alice  has  been  to 
me,  and  how  I  have  loved  her  ever  since 
she  came  into  my  saddened  life,  and  has 
been,  from  that  day  to  this,  the  brightest 
thing  in  it.  Yes,  indeed,  "  her  name  has 
lent  it  glory  and  her  love  its  thread  of  gold," 
if  "  glory "  and  golden  threads  are  not  too 
strong  terms  to  use  about  anything  connected 
with  a  quiet  old  maid. 

Carroll  Fisher's  mother  and  mine  were 
sisters,  and  I  suppose  Aunt  Katharine  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  family  thought  that  Mother 
had  married  very  much  beneath  her  when 
she  chose  John  Langdon,  for  he  was  only  a 
poor  young  doctor;  but  I  know  she  was  a 
happy  woman.  I  was  only  nine  when  she 
died,  and  then  father  and  I  lived  alone  for 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Demorest's   Magazine." 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  45 

nearly  nine  years  more;  and  when  he  mar- 
ried again,  I  had  only  the  warmest  welcome 
for  my  young  step-mother.  She  was  very 
pretty,  and  full  of  child-like,  attractive  ways  ; 
and  she  made  the  old  home  so  bright,  and 
my  dear  father  so  happy,  that  I  could  not 
have  helped  loving  her,  even  if  I  had  tried. 

I  think  I  was  almost  as  glad  as  she,  when 
Alice  came,  —  the  dearest,  sweetest  baby  that 
ever  flourished  a  rattle  and  ruled  a  house- 
hold !  I  had  just  passed  through  the  darkest 
days  I  have  ever  known.  It  was  the  year  of 
Winchester  and  Fisher's  Hill  and  Cedar 
Creek,  and  Harold  Winslow  was  killed  at 
Cedar  Creek.  I  little  thought,  once,  that  I 
could  ever  write  it  as  calmly  as  that!  I 
notice  that  people  say  often,  in  the  midst  of 
great  trouble,  "  Oh,  I  shall  die !  it  will  kill 
me  !  "  If  it  only  would  !  But  the  bitter  part 
of  sorrow  is  that  it  does  n't  kill.  One  has  to 
live,  to  gather  up  the  poor  fragments,  and 
go  on. 

Still  I  think  a  part  of  me  died  with  Harold 
Winslow.  It  was  never  my  world,  made  just 
for  me  to  be  happy  in,  after  he  was  killed. 
When  Alice  was  born,  she  was  the  greatest 
comfort  and  distraction.  She  gave  me  some- 
thing to  do,  in  the  first  place,  and  then  — 


46  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

she  did  n't  know.  I  used  to  look  in  her 
great  blue  eyes  sometimes,  and  think,  "  You 
are  the  only  human  being  around  me  that 
knows  nothing  of  my  trouble ;  "  and  her 
innocence  was  very  soothing  and  restful.  A 
soul  may  be  so  bruised  and  sore  that  any 
sympathy,  even  the  gentlest,  hurts  more  than 
it  helps.  So  Alice  comforted  me  in  those 
awful  days,  because  I  could  work  for  her, 
and  because,  after  a  little,  she  loved  me. 
She  was  never  "  sorry  for  me  ;  "  she  never 
"  went  softly "  for  my  sake.  No ;  she  or- 
dered me  about  and  tyrannized  over  me,  and 
made  no  allowances  whatever,  —  and  I  liked 
it. 

Her  mother  was  not  very  strong,  and  she 
died  when  Alice  was  still  but  a  baby.  She 
left  the  child  to  me ;  and  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  sorrow  that  I  felt,  it  was  in  those  days 
that  I  gathered  the  scattered  forces  of  my  life 
together  for  Alice's  sake.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  lived  again  in  Alice,  — 
as  if  her  coming  as  she  did,  just  when  my  life 
had  in  a  way  ended,  made  it  possible  for  me 
to  begin  all  over. 

I  always  wanted  that  Alice  should  have  all 
the  good  things  that  my  own  life  had  held, 
and  all  the  better  ones  that  I  had  wished  for. 


A  SILENT  SOUL.  47 

We  had  not  a  very  large  fortune  from  father ; 
but  mother  had  left  me  a  nice  little  sum,  and 
I  was  able  with  it  to  do  so  much  for  Alice. 
We  stayed  at  the  old  home  while  father  lived, 
and  then  we  travelled  about  a  good  deal. 
Alice  went  to  school  in>  many  places  in  Eu- 
rope. I  was  always  with  her.  If  she  was  at 
boarding-school,  I  was  near  enough  so  that 
she  could  come  to  me  at  least  once  a  week 
and  tell  me  all  the  little  story  of  her  school 
life.  She  never  knew,  I  think,  how  I  counted 
the  hours  until  she  came.  I  tried  not  to  spoil 
her,  tried  not  to  let  my  devotion  hamper  her 
in  any  little  way.  I  even  tried,  at  times,  to 
be  very  stern  with  the  child;  but  that  was 
hard  indeed,  for  I  loved  her  as  few  mothers,  I 
think,  love  their  children.  She  was  more  than 
my  flesh  and  blood,  —  she  was  my  other  life  ! 
I  was  so  glad  when  I  was  sure  that  she 
would  be  beautiful !  She  had  always  seemed 
lovely  to  me,  but  I  am  afraid  I  should  have 
thought  so,  no  matter  how  she  looked.  She 
grew  very  like  her  mother ;  but  the  features 
that  were  pretty  in  her  mother  were  beauti- 
ful in  Alice.  As  she  grew  to  womanhood,  I 
trembled  often  for  the  future.  If  Alice 
should  love  unhappily,  if  she  should  pass 
through  any  such  ordeal  as  had  come  to  me, 


48  A  SILENT  SOUL. 

I  felt  that  I  simply  could  not  endure  it. 
I  was  like  some  poor  person  who,  having 
passed  through  a  terrible  surgical  operation, 
maimed  and  bleeding,  struggles  back  to  life, 
and  when  he  has  grown  older  and  feebler, 
with  the  memory  of  all  his  suffering  strong 
upon  him,  is  filled  with  a  great  fear  that  it 
may  have  to  be  repeated. 

But  no  unhappy  love  came  to  Alice.  In- 
stead, the  very  thing  that  I  most  longed  for 
happened.  We  had  always  visited  Aunt 
Katharine  Fisher,  and  Carroll  had  watched 
my  Alice  grow  up  almost  as  lovingly  as  I. 
I  knew  how  truly  and  for  how  long  the  dear 
fellow  had  loved  her,  but  I  was  afraid  that 
what  I  so  much  wanted  and  hoped  for  would 
never  be.  Alice  treated  him  as  frankly  as  a 
brother  ;  and  he,  fearing  to  lose  what  he  had, 
hesitated  to  venture  to  gain  all.  I  could  not 
help  either  of  them.  At  such  a  time,  each 
woman  must  be  as  utterly  alone  as  if  she  were 
the  only  living  being  in  the  world.  I  hovered 
around  Alice,  and  prayed  for  her,  and  loved 
her  —  I  think  more  than  ever. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  day  she  came  to 
tell  me  that  she  and  Carroll  were  engaged. 
She  went  to  my  room,  but  I  had  gone  down 
into  the  rose-garden,  where  I  met  Carroll,  so 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  49 

that  he  told  me  first.  He  did  not  need  to  tell 
me, —  I  saw  it  all  in  his  face.  It  shone  "  as  it 
had  been  the  face  of  an  angel." 

"  Oh,  Mary !  "  he  said,  and  came  right  to 
me,  holding  out  both  hands.  "  She  is  mine 
—  she  loves  me  — she  has  told  me  so  !  "  and 
then  he  put  both  arms  around  me,  and  kissed 
me;  and  when  I  looked  at  him  again,  we 
were  both  crying  like  little  children. 

I  left  him  and  ran  into  the  house,  to  see 
my  darling.  She  was  in  my  room,  waiting 
for  me,  her  sweet  face  all  aflame.  She  could 
not  look  at  me,  but  hid  her  face  on  my 
shoulder,  and  I  felt  her  dear  heart  beat,  beat, 
beat,  so  hard  and  fast  I  was  afraid  it  would 
never  be  calm  again. 

Aunt  Katharine  was  happy,  too.  She  loved 
Alice,  and  she  loved  me  because  I  was  her 
sister's  child;  and  I  think  she  had  a  vague 
idea  that  Carroll  was  going  to  marry  me  too, 
and  that  I  would  keep  house  in  the  same 
old-fashioned  way  that  she  had  always  done. 

Poor  Aunt  Katharine  !  She  had  been  such 
a  magnificent  woman  in  her  day !  Now, 
nearly  helpless,  she  was  wheeled  about  the 
familiar  rooms  and  beautiful  grounds  of  her 
old  home.  Her  mind,  too,  had  failed,  and 
only  the  perfect  breeding  of  her  rare  lady- 


50  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

hood  remained.  She  could  not  think  or  say 
an  ungracious  or  discourteous  thing.  Feeble 
in  mind  and  body,  no  one  ever  looked  at  her 
without  giving  her  a  tribute  of  honor  and 
respect.  Carroll  always  treated  her  as  if  she 
were  a  queen;  he  gave  her  just  the  chival- 
rous devotion  that  was  the  complement  to 
her  sweet  graciousness. 

Sometimes  you  will  find  a  family,  like  a 
picture,  in  exactly  the  frame  that  best  suits 
it;  and  it  always  seemed  right  and  fitting 
to  me  that  the  old  Fisher  place  should  be- 
long to  Carroll  and  his  mother.  The  house 
was  a  large,  old-fashioned  manor,  with  a 
certain  dignity  and  character  of  its  own.  It 
was  painted  white,  a  clear,  dazzling  white, 
and  the  wood-work  inside  was  white  too,  — 
a  glossy  white,  like  enamel.  The  white  stair- 
case reached  from  the  square  hall  to  the 
attic,  and  had  many  turns  and  landings.  I 
used  to  love  to  watch  my  Alice  as  she  came 
slowly  down  the  broad  white  steps,  and  think 
how  well  all  the  old-fashioned  stateliness  of 
the  house  suited  her. 

She  and  Carroll  were  going  to  be  married 
in  the  winter,  but  I  do  not  think  we  were  any 
of  us  in  a  great  hurry.  We  were  all  very 
happy  as  we  were.  "  That  new  world,  which 


A    SILENT  SOUL.  5  I 

is  the  old,"  was  very  beautiful  to  Alice,  and 
she  wandered  through  it  like  one  in  a  happy 
dream ;  while  Carroll,  having  so  much  more 
than  he  had  ever  hoped  for,  was  contented 
too,  and  did  not  worry  her  with  impatience. 
As  for  me,  I  think  I  should  have  been  satis- 
fied simply  to  watch  them  forever.  Of  course 
I  knew  she  would  be  very  happy  as  his  wife ; 
but  has  n't  every  one  agreed  that  this  is  the 
rare  poetry  of  life  whose  melody  softens  for 
a  time  all  harsher  strains? 

We  used  to  drive  to  the  village  for  the 
mail  every  morning, — generally  Carroll  and 
Alice  in  front,  and  I  on  the  back  seat,  which 
I  was  quite  contented  now  to  take.  Carroll 
had  usually  the  most  letters,  and  Alice  would 
drive  while  he  read  them.  He  had  read 
nearly  all  one  morning,  when  he  looked  up 
with  a  troubled  air,  and  reaching  back  handed 
a  letter  to  me. 

"  Read  it,  and  advise,"  he  said. 

It  was  in  a  small,  neat,  inexpressive  hand. 
I  read :  — 

DEAR  COUSIN,  —  I  am  on  waiting  orders  for  an 
indefinite  length  of  time.  It  is  a  long  time  since 
I  have  seen  you,  and,  if  perfectly  convenient, 
I  would  like  to  run  down  for  a  few  days  and  see 


52  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

the  old  place.     My  last  cruise  was  a  short  one,  — 
to  Madeira.     Will  you  write  me  if  you  had  rather 
I  would  not  come  ?     Believe  me, 
Very  truly  yours, 

HENRY  CLIFFORD. 

It  seemed  to  me  curt  and  short,  and  in 
some  way  disagreeable.  I  handed  it  back 
in  silence. 

"Well?"  said  Carroll. 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"  My  cousin,  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy.  I 
have  n't  seen  him  since  we  were  boys,  and  a 
mighty  shy,  quiet,  awkward  fellow  he  was 
then.  Perhaps  cruising  around  the  world 
has  changed  all  that." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Alice,  rousing  herself 
from  a  revery,  and  holding  out  her  hand  for 
the  letter. 

Carroll  gave  it  to  her.  "  I  don't  think  we 
want  him  here  now,"  he  said ;  "  I  will  write 
and  tell  him  I  have  other  guests." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  Alice,  who  had  finished 
reading  the  brief  lines ;  "  don't  let  us  begin 
by  being  selfish.  Has  he  any  home?" 

"  No,"  answered  Carroll,  gloomily,  "an  only 
child,  and  an  orphan.  His  father  was  in  the 
navy  before  him.  But,  Alice,"  he  broke  off 


A    SILENT  SOUL.  53 

abruptly,  "  it  will  spoil  everything  to  have  a 
third  person  around." 

"  You  mean  a  fourth,"  I  chirped  in,  from 
the  back  seat,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"  Mary,"  said  Carroll,  turning  around,  "  if 
I  tell  him  to  come,  will  you  '  call  off  the 
dog'  early  and  often?  " 

"  I  will  be  so  devoted,"  I  answered  promptly, 
"  that  there  will  be  gossip  about  us  in  the 
village." 

"  You  dear  old  thing  !  "  said  Alice,  smiling 
at  me ;  "I  wonder  what  you  would  n't  do  for 
me  !  "  Then  she  added,  "  You  ought  to  have 
him  come,  Carroll.  I  feel  sorry  for  him. 
Let  us  all  try  to  make  him  have  a  pleasant 
time." 

"  Well,"  said  Carroll,  "  I  suppose  you  are 
right,  dear,  but  I  do  wish  it  had  been  any 
other  time." 

I  did  n't  like  the  prospect  at  all.  This 
stranger,  I  felt  sure,  was  going  to  spoil  the 
pleasantness  of  our  little  party.  I  knew  I 
should  dislike  him. 

Lieutenant  Clifford  came  late  one  after- 
noon, and  only  Aunt  Katharine  and  I  were 
at  home.  Carroll  and  Alice  had  gone  on  a 
long  horseback  ride  across  the  hills,  which 
were  all  aglow  with  autumn  colors.  He  was 


54  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

a  tall,  well-made  man,  with  a  quiet,  rather 
grave  face.  In  some  way  he  gave  me  the 
impression  that  he  would  have  been  crooked 
but  for  his  military  training.  As  it  was,  he 
was  quite  straight;  but  he  did  not  carry 
his  head  well,  —  it  drooped  a  little.  He 
had  deep  gray  eyes,  with  that  peculiar,  sad 
look  in  them  that  one  sometimes  sees  in 
human  eyes  when  the  rest  of  the  face  is 
quite  cheerful,  and  that  one  often  notices  in 
animals. 

I  introduced  myself,  and  then  I  took  him 
to  Aunt  Katharine,  who  smiled  a  cordial 
welcome,  asked  him  a  few  questions,  and 
promptly  forgot  who  he  was  and  all  about 
him.  I  found  him  very  hard  to  talk  to. 
He  seemed  painfully  diffident  or  exceedingly 
unsociable.  I  had  almost  given  up  the  at- 
tempt, when  there  was  a  clatter  in  the  hall, 
a  ring  of  laughter,  and  Alice  and  Carroll 
came  in.  She  looked  beautiful ;  her  cheeks 
were  full  of  color,  and  her  hair  all  blown 
around  her  face.  They  both  shook  hands 
with  the  lieutenant,  and  we  all  talked  at 
once.  Then  we  separated  to  dress  for 
dinner.  I  think  I  was  the  only  one  who 
noticed  him  closely  when  they  met.  He 
never  took  his  eyes  from  Alice's  face. 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  55 

Dinner  passed  off  better  than  I  had  ex- 
pected. Carroll  and  Alice  were  in  high 
spirits,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  my  darling  so 
happy.  But  after  dinner  we  felt  the  stranger's 
presence  as  a  restraint,  for  the  first  time. 
Generally  I  had  taken  my  books  and  papers, 
and  read  by  one  of  the  tables,  while  Carroll 
and  Alice  strolled  off  somewhere  together. 
Now,  however,  we  tried  to  form  one  party. 
But  the  lieutenant  was  as  unwieldy  with 
three  as  he  had  been  with  one,  and  presently 
Carroll  asked  Alice  to  sing. 

She  did  not  have  a  strong  voice,  but  it 
was  sweet  and  sympathetic,  and  I  was  never 
tired  of  listening  to  it.  She  went  to  the 
piano,  and  the  lieutenant  sat  down  beside 
her.  He  had  taken  Carroll's  place  uncon- 
sciously, and  it  left  Carroll  the  other  side  of 
the  room  with  me.  We  looked  up  at  the 
same  time,  caught  each  other's  eyes,  and 
laughed. 

Alice  sang  three  or  four  songs,  and  then 
I  turned  to  ask  her  to  sing  a  favorite  of  mine, 
but  stopped,  struck  by  the  tableau.  She 
was  playing  a  few  chords  carelessly,  evi- 
dently thinking  of  something  else;  but  the 
man  at  her  side  had  taken  exactly  the  atti- 
tude of  the  youth  in  Frank  Dicksee's  pic- 


56  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

ture.  I  mean  the  picture  of  the  girl  at  the 
organ,  with  the  man  behind  her  watching 
her  with  such  an  intense,  passionate  look. 
I  have  always  hated  that  picture  anyway ! 
—  I  suppose  I  am  not  educated  enough  to 
appreciate  it;  but  the  youth  seems  so  un- 
necessarily frowsy,  and  the  girl  is  so  thin, 
and  then  he  is  looking  at  her  with  such 
a  Wolf-at-Red-Riding-Hood  expression.  I 
hated  to  see  my  Alice  look  like  her,  even 
for  a  minute. 

Carroll  turned  too,  and  I  know  he  saw 
the  likeness  just  as  I  did.  He  half  rose 
from  his  chair,  and  then  sat  down  again  and 
began  to  poke  the  fire.  Altogether,  it  seemed 
like  a  long  evening,  although  it  was  earlier 
than  usual  when  I  proposed  to  Alice  that 
we  should  go  to  bed. 

We  all  stood  in  the  hall  at  the  foot  of  the 
white  staircase,  saying  good-night.  Alice 
held  out  her  hand  to  Lieutenant  Clifford. 
"Good-night,"  she  said  quietly;  and  then 
she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  gave 
a  little  cry,  and  before  he  could  catch  her, 
she  had  fainted  dead  away,  and  fallen  upon 
the  stairs.  I  had  never  known  her  to  faint 
before,  and  I  was  much  frightened,  and  poor 
Carroll  was  nearly  distracted ;  but  it  was 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  57 

only  a  few  seconds  before  she  was  her 
natural,  smiling  self  again. 

She  told  me,  up  in  her  room,  that  she  was 
very  tired,  and  was  afraid  she  had  ridden  too 
far  ;  and  I  had  to  be  content  with  this  as  a 
reason :  but  I  did  not  sleep  well  that  night. 
Carroll  had  not  kissed  Alice  good-night.  I 
had  always  left  them  for  a  minute  in  the  hall, 
but  to-night  Alice's  fainting  had  prevented. 
It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a 
bad  omen. 

I  was  so  relieved  when  Lieutenant  Clifford 
said,  after  breakfast  the  next  day,  that  he 
had  letters  to  write.  He  went  to  his  room 
soon  after,  and  it  was  funny  to  see  the  boy- 
ish, eager  way  in  which  Carroll  asked  Alice 
to  drive  with  him.  I  watched  them  start, 
and  ran  up  to  my  room  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  I  had  carried  for  many  hours.  It  was 
a  glorious  day,  and  I  meant  to  enjoy  it. 

Carroll  turned  to  the  lieutenant  at  luncheon 
and  said :  "  What  would  you  like  to  do  this 
afternoon,  —  ride,  walk,  drive,  or  loaf?  This 
is  Sans  Souci,  or,  as  it  was  once  translated, 
'  No  Bother  House,'  so  you  may  do  as  you 
please." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  walk.  Will  you 
go  with  me,  Miss  Langdon?" 


58  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

He  looked  at  Alice,  and  the  color  came  to 
her  face.  She  glanced  at  Carroll,  who  said 
quickly,  "  Do  go,  Alice.  You  have  not 
walked  to-day,  and  you  know  all  the  prettiest 
views."  He  spoke  heartily,  but  I  noticed 
that  he  ate  nothing  more  after  Lieutenant 
Clifford's  invitation. 

They  started  soon  after  luncheon.  I  was 
in  the  library,  writing,  when  Carroll  came  in 
and  threw  himself  on  the  sofa.  "  Why, 
Carroll ! "  I  said,  "  you  in  the  house  this 
lovely  day?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered ;   "  I  'm  tired." 

I  think  we  stayed  there  together  in  silence 
for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  I  began  to  watch 
the  clock  nervously.  I  hoped  Carroll  did 
not  notice  how  the  time  was  passing. 

"  They  ought  to  be  home,"  I  said  finally. 
I  had  not  meant  to  say  it,  but  I  had  thought 
it  so  many  times  that  at  last  it  thought  itself 
aloud. 

"  No,"  said  Carroll,  in  a  low  voice,  "  they 
will  not  be  back  yet." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  trying  to  speak  care- 
lessly, "  did  they  tell  you  where  they  were 
going?" 

"  No." 

He  got  up   from  the  sofa,  walked   across 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  59 

the  room  once  or  twice,  and  came  and  stood 
before  me. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  Mary  dear,  let  us  look 
at  it  squarely." 

"Look  at  what?"  I  exclaimed,  with  faint 
gayety.  "  Carroll,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  You  're  not  well." 

"  Mary,"  he  went  on,  not  noticing  my 
little  attempt  to  divert  him,  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about 
it  in  the  night.  I  'm  afraid  I  have  been  very 
unfair  with  Alice." 

I  simply  looked  at  him. 

"  You  see,  Mary,  she  has  never  seen  any 
one,  never  really  had  a  chance.  She  trav- 
elled, to  be  sure,  with  you ;  but  that  is  not 
like  being  in  society  and  having  attention 
and  admirers,  like  other  girls.  No,  she  has 
never  seen  any  one  but  me,  and  we  all 
conspired  to  make  her  take  me.  It  is  n't 
fair." 

"Carroll  Fisher  1  "  I  exclaimed,  in  genuine 
surprise  this  time,  "  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  if  at  any 
time  in  the  future,  she,  Alice,  my  little  girl, 
finds  that  she  has  made  a  mistake,  and  does 
not  care  for  me  as  I  had  hoped,  if  she  — 
Well,  whatever  she  does,  no  one  must  blame 


60  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

her.  Do  you  hear,  Mary?  Even  you  are 
not  to  blame  her.  You  must  remember  that 
she  never  had  a  chance  to  pick  and  choose, 
like  other  girls;  that  she  was  hurried  right 
i'nto  my  arms,  that  were  waiting  for  her; 
that  she  has  a  right  — "  He  stopped,  and 
walked  down  the  room  again. 

"  Carroll,"  I  said,  when  he  came  back, 
"  you  must  not  talk  like  that.  Alice  loves 
you  with  all  her  heart." 

"  I  know  it,  I  believe  it,  Mary.  I  have 
been  so  happy  in  her  love !  but  —  why 
should  we  disguise  the  fact?  We  both  see 
that  Harry  Clifford  will  love  her  as  wildly, 
as  desperately,  I  will  not  say  as  truly,  as  I. 
And  if  she  should — " 

"  She  won't !  "  I  interrupted.  "  She  never 
will !  I  don't  understand  it,  Carroll,  it  all 
seems  strange  and  dreadful ;  but  I  know  my 
Alice,  and  I  know  she  loves  you." 

He  gave  me  a  grateful  look.  "  I  only  spoke 
of  it,  Mary,  that  we  might  both  act,  whatever 
happens,  so  that  no  blame  shall  fall  on  her. 
Leave  her  perfectly  free  ;  do  not  question  her 
or  reprove  her.  Let  us  both  act  naturally, 
and  wait.  My  darling  will  do  nothing  wrong. 
If  she  finds  she  has  made  a  mistake,  we  must 
remember  it  is  I  who  injured  her,  in  taking 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  6 1 

advantage  of  her  inexperience ;  not  she  who 
will  injure  me." 

I  looked  at  him,  his  dear  face  fairly  aglow 
with  his  honest  love,  and  wondered  how  any 
woman  could  help  loving  him,  wondered  if 
any  woman  could  prefer  that  awkward,  silent 
man  with  the  sad  eyes. 

We  waited  nearly  three  hours  before  Alice 
and  Lieutenant  Clifford  came  in.  She  went 
to  the  fire,  pulled  off  her  gloves,  and  began  to 
warm  her  hands. 

"  It  has  been  a  beautiful  afternoon,"  she 
said.  "  Carroll,  were  n't  you  out?" 

"  No,"  he  tried  to  answer  lightly.  "  Mary 
and  I  like  to  get  rid  of  you  once  in  a  while, 
and  have  an  old-fashioned  talk.  Did  you 
show  Clifford  the  views?  " 

"Yes — no."  She  hesitated.  "Did  you 
see  them?"  turning  to  the  lieutenant. 

"  I  saw  all  I  wanted  to  see,"  he  answered,  as 
shortly  as  ever. 

When  we  were  dressing  for  dinner  I  could 
not  help  a  few  questions,  although  I  had 
promised  Carroll  not  to  scold  or  worry  her. 

"What  is  Lieutenant  Clifford  like?  "  I  asked. 
"  I  can't  get  a  word  out  of  him." 

"  He  doesn't  talk  much,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. 


62  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

"  I  think  he  is  an  insufferable,  stupid  bore, 
either  with  nothing  in  his  head,  or  a  crime  on 
his  conscience,"  I  said,  and  could  not  have 
helped  saying  it  to  save  my  life. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  trembled, 
"  you  have  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing.  You 
are  unkind  and  cruel.  You  make  me  hate 
you  all,  when  you  speak  like  that ; "  and  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and  began  to 
cry. 

I  ran  to  her,  thoroughly  frightened. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  dear  Mary,  forgive  me !  I  did 
not  mean  to  speak  so."  She  put  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  cried  more  softly. 

"What  is  it,  Alice?  Can  you  tell  me, 
dear?" 

She   shook   her  head.     "  I    can   tell   you 
nothing,  dear  Mary.     I  wish  I  could." 

After  a  long  pause  she  said,  "You  will 
never  say  such  unjust  things  of  him 
again?" 

"  No,  dear,"  I  whispered ;  but  in  my  heart 
I  fairly  hated  him. 

So  the  days  went  on, —  always  Alice  and 
Lieutenant  Clifford  together,  always  poor 
Carroll  left  with  me.  They  were  wretched, 
uncomfortable  days.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  were  watching  some  dreadful  thing  in  a 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  63 

nightmare;  I  longed  to  cry  out  and  break 
the  spell. 

It  was  an  ordeal  to  Carroll,  such  as  few 
men  are  called  upon  to  endure,  and  through 
which  fewer  still  could  go  with  the  strength 
and  courage  that  he  showed.  He  was  very 
patient  and  gentle.  He  omitted  no  little 
loving  attention  that  he  had  been  used  to 
show  Alice.  Instead,  it  seemed  as  if  he  tried 
to  think  of  every  small  thing  that  would  give 
her  pleasure.  He  never  seemed  angry  or 
depressed,  after  the  first.  Instead,  he  was 
cheerful,  with  a  pathetic  sort  of  cheerfulness 
that  sometimes  sent  me  to  my  room  with  tears 
in  my  eyes.  Day  by  day  the  look  of  utter 
hopelessness  deepened  and  settled  on  his 
face. 

I  wondered  if  Alice  saw  it.  She  never 
spoke  of  it,  and  she  was  very  sweet  and  tender 
when  she  was  with  him.  It  seemed  to  me, 
sometimes,  as  if  she  loved  him  more  than 
ever  ;  and  yet  how  could  that  be,  when  she 
spent  nearly  all  of  her  time  with  this  wretched 
Lieutenant  Clifford? 

I  used  to  watch  her  when  she  was  getting 
ready  to  walk  or  drive  with  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  she  went  a  little  wearily, 
with  the  same  tired  air  that  I  have  noticed 


64  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

in  mothers  when  they  minister  to  a  wakeful, 
restless  child.  Yet  she  was  always  very 
gentle  to  him ;  but  it  was  not  the  loving, 
happy  gentleness  that  she  showed  to  Carroll. 
No  one  could  look  in  her  sweet,  pure  face 
and  think  for  a  moment  that  she  thought  she 
was  doing  wrong.  No  :  whatever  wreck  she 
might  be  making  of  her  own  and  others'  lives, 
I  was  sure,  always  sure,  that  my  darling's 
heart  was  good  and  true. 

I  used  to  watch  Lieutenant  Clifford,  too ; 
but  I  could  not  understand  him  any  better 
than  I  had  done  at  first.  Always  painfully 
shy,  with  a  diffidence  which  it  was  impossible, 
even  with  the  kindest  efforts,  to  dispel,  he 
would  have  aroused  my  pity,  if  I  had  not  held 
him  responsible  for  all  our  trouble.  His 
admiration  —  adoration,  rather  —  of  Alice 
was  unconcealed.  His  gray  eyes  would 
fasten  themselves  upon  her  face  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  and  remain  there  as  if  spellbound.  Yet 
I  never  saw  him  talk  much  with  her.  He 
seemed  to  watch  her  with  a  sort  of  suppressed 
eagerness.  I  saw  once,  in  a  hospital,  a 
Spanish  mute,  dumb,  but  not  deaf.  The 
nurse  asked  me  if  I  could  speak  to  her  in  her 
native  tongue;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the 
look  on  that  girl's  face  when  the  familiar 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  65 

sounds  fell  upon  her  ear  !  Something  such  a 
look  Henry  Clifford's  face  wore  when  he  was 
with  Alice. 

He  used  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  in 
his  own  room  ;  and  then  Alice  was  her  old 
self,  with  the  added  gladness  of  one  whose 
untrammelled  moments  are  far  apart.  I  do 
not  know  that  he  ever  said  so,  but  the  general 
impression  was,  that  at  such  times  he  was 
writing;  but  I  never  saw  him  post  a  letter, — 
and  I  watched. 

We  could  not  have  gone  on  living  long  in 
this  way ;  but  the  end  came  suddenly  and 
terribly.  There  had  been  many  small  bur- 
glaries in  the  village,  and  one  night  Carroll 
called  me  aside  and  said : 

"  Mary,  look  well  to  your  windows  and  to 
Alice's  to-night.  There  seems  to  be  a  regular 
gang  of  these  thieves,  and  I  'm  afraid  they  will 
try  to  pay  us  a  visit.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
them,"  he  added,  "  and  everything  is  well 
locked  up  ;  but  I  would  n't  like  to  have  Alice 
or  you  frightened  by  them." 

So  I  tucked  my  darling  in  bed  that  night, 
as  I  had  done  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  and 
locked  all  the  windows  that  opened  on  roofs 
or  balconies  or  any  such  vantage-ground  for 
thieves.  My  room  opened  from  Alice's,  and 
5 


66  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

I  asked  her  if  I  should  sleep  with  her,  as  she 
sometimes  wanted  me  to.  But  she  said  no, 
she  was  sleepy  and  would  drop  off  in  a 
moment;  and  she  kissed  me  good-night,  and  I 
left  her. 

My  poor  darling!  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  her  voice  rang  out  in  a  scream  so  wild 
and  unearthly  I  could  not  believe  it  was  she. 

"Alice,  Alice!"  I  cried,  "  I  am  coming! 
I  am  coming !  "  and  almost  before  I  had  spoken 
I  was  in  her  room.  The  door  into  the  hall 
was  open.  Alice  sat  up  in  bed,  her  face  white 
and  rigid,  uttering  shrill  calls  for  help.  At  her 
dressing-table  stood  a  man,  her  little  jewel- 
casket  open  before  him,  and  her  watch  in  his 
hand.  He  wore  a  piece  of  black  cloth  over  his 
face ;  but  he  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and 
through  the  holes  I  saw  the  white  gleam  of  his 
eyes.  • 

I  went  directly  to  the  bed.  "  He  shall  not 
hurt  you,  darling,  he  shall  not  hurt  you !  "  I 
cried,  and  put  both  arms  around  her ;  and 
then  I,  too,  sent  through  the  silent  house  a 
loud  scream  for  help. 

The  man  turned,  and  made  a  step  toward 
the  bed  ;  then,  still  with  the  watch  in  his 
hand,  he  fled  through  the  open  door,  and  I 
heard  him  running  down  the  stairs.  At  the 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  67 

same  time  I  heard  another  man  run  through 

o 

the  hall  and  down  the  stairs.  There  was  a  shot 
fired,  then  another,  then  there  was  a  moment 
of  silence  ;  and  then,  through  all  the  house, 
the  hurrying  steps  of  the  aroused  inmates, 
the  slamming  of  doors,  and  clamor  of  many 
voices. 

"Are  you  hurt?  Is  Alice  safe?"  cried 
Carroll,  breathlessly,  at  our  door. 

"  No,  we  are  not  hurt,"  I  answered  with 
chattering  teeth.  "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

Alice  lay  back,  faint  and  speechless,  in  my 
arms. 

"  I  will  be  back  in  an  instant,"  he  said,  and 
went  down  the  hall,  followed  by  a  procession 
of  servants  in  motley  array  and  with  strange 
weapons.  Then  we  heard  a  great  deal  of 
talking,  and  loud  shrieks  from  some  of  the 
frightened  servants;  and  soon  Carroll  came 
back  to  the  door. 

"  Clifford  has  been  shot,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
afraid  badly.  He  followed  the  man  and  fired. 
I  have  sent  for  a  doctor.  The  man  must 
have  got  away,  but  he  was  wounded." 

I  threw  on  a  wrapper  and  hurried  into  the 
hall.  There,  on  the  landing,  was  a  huddled 
group  of  servants,  and  in  their  midst  lay  Lieu- 
tenant Clifford,  breathing  heavily.  There  was 


68  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

a  great  pool  of  blood  on  the  white  step  where 
he  lay,  and  dark  red  spatters  all  up  and  down 
the  stairs. 

He  said  in  a  whisper  when  he  saw  me, 
"  She  is  not  hurt?  He  did  not  harm  her?" 

"  Alice  is  unhurt,  thank  God !  "  I  said,  and 
he  repeated  after  me,  "  Thank  God  !  "  and 
then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  I  thought 
that  he  had  died,  he  looked  so  white  and 
ghastly. 

We  got  him  up  and  in  his  own  room,  and  the 
doctor  came  soon  and  examined  him.  He 
was  shot  through  the  lung,  the  doctor  said, 
and  wounded  fatally.  How  long  he  might 
live,  he  could  not  tell.  The  doctor  did  all 
that  he  could  to  make  him  comfortable,  and 
left,  promising  to  return  soon. 

We  were  all  in  Clifford's  room  at  daybreak, 
and  he  seemed  a  little  stronger.  He  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  and  looked  at  us  all 
squarely  and  tenderly,  as  he  had  never  done 
before. 

"  I  am  going  to  die,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am 
so  glad,  so  glad  !  " 

Then,  after  a  little,  he  spoke  again :  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  all.  Can  you  listen 
now?  " 

His  whole  manner  was  changed ;  there  was 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  69 

no  hesitation,  no  shrinking  from  us.  He 
seemed  as  frank  and  honest  as  a  child. 

"  I  want  Alice  by  me,"  he  said  ;  and  Alice 
went  to  the  head  of  his  bed  and  sat  beside 
him,  reaching  over  and  taking  his  hand  in 
hers.  Carroll  leaned  over  the  foot-board,  and 
I  was  close  to  Alice. 

He  looked  at  us  all  again,  and  said,  "  You 
have  been  very  good  to  me ;  and  now  I  must 
hurry  and  tell  you  what  I  have  to  tell,  for 
there  is  not  much  time." 

His  voice  was  low  and  husky,  and  he  must 
have  been  in  great  pain  ;  but  his  face  looked 
happier  than  I  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  he  began, 
"  that  I  might  have  been  a  very  different  man 
if  my  mother  had  lived ;  but  she  died  when  I 
was  born.  Perhaps  it  would  not  have  made 
any  difference,  but  I  think  she  would  have 
understood  me.  My  father  was  in  the  navy, 
and  so  much  away  that  I  scarcely  remem- 
bered him  from  one  brief  visit  to  another. 
I  grew  up  a  silent,  neglected  child. 

"  I  never  had  a  playmate  or  a  comrade.  I 
was  sent  early  to  boarding-school,  and  spent 
many  miserable  years  there.  I  was  called 
'  shy'  and  '  diffident'  and,  sometimes,  '  ugly.' 
I  never  played  with  the  other  boys ;  I  never 


7O  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

had  a  '  chum.'  At  first  the  teachers  tried  to 
be  kind  and  considerate  to  me,  to  draw  me 
out  and  make  me  feel  at  home;  and  even 
some  of  the  boys,  the  better,  more  courteous 
ones,  tried  to  make  friends  with  me :  but  it 
was  of  no  use  ;  I  could  not  speak  —  I  could 
not  respond  to  their  boyish  advances.  My 
poor,  starved,  hungry  heart  ached  then,  as  it 
has  ached  all  my  life,  for  a  little  companion- 
ship ;  but  I  could  not  show  it  in  any  way  ;  it 
seemed  absolutely  impossible.  Time  after 
time  I  tried  in  vain.  I  used  to  watch  the  boys 
on  the  playground,  from  the  schoolroom  win- 
dow, with  such  a  longing  to  be  one  of  them 
that  sometimes  I  would  say,  '  I  will  try, 
they  shall  like  me !  '  and  then  I  would  rush 
down  to  the  playground,  where  my  valor 
melted  away,  and  I  would  stand,  a  great, 
silent,  hulking  boy,  whose  very  presence  was 
a  restraint  upon  the  others,  so  that  they  could 
not  play  as  they  had  played  before.  Then  I 
would  creep  back  and  up  into  my  own  room, 
and  wish  that  I  were  dead. 

"The  boys  were  merciless;  and  after  liv- 
ing a  while  under  their  keen  fire  of  taunts 
and  nicknames,  it  would  have  been  a  brave 
soul  indeed  that  could  ever  have  asserted  it- 
self. With  the  masters  I  did  not  get  on  much 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  J\ 

better,  although  I  was  a  good  scholar,  and 
stood  well  in  my  classes  ;  but  they  could  not 
understand  so  unboyish  a  boy.  They  thought 
I  was  sulky,  morose,  or,  at  the  best,  unnatural. 
My  shell  only  hardened  in  school,  and  when 
I  left  it  for  the  Naval  Academy,  I,  the  real  I, 
was  as  absolutely  shut  in  within  myself,  as 
ever  poor  Constance  de  Beverley  was  walled 
in  in  the  dungeon  of  her  convent.  It  would 
have  been  a  mercy  if  I  could  have  died  like 
her  ;  but  I —  lived  and  suffered  !  " 

The  coughing  which  had  interrupted  him 
several  times  while  he  spoke,  now  became 
violent;  but  he  seemed  eager  to  continue. 

"  At  the  Academy,"  he  said,  "  I  was  the 
only  boy  in  my  class  who  was  not  hazed." 
A  faint  smile  crept  over  his  face  as  he  looked 
up  at  Carroll.  "  Can  you  appreciate  the  ter- 
rible isolation  of  that? 

"  The  boys  said,  I  remember,  that  it  was 
'  like  hazing  a  corpse.'  They  let  me  alone 
after  the  first  trial.  I  think  I  am  the  only 
man  who  ever  went  through  Annapolis  who 
yearned  and  longed  to  be  hazed.  There  is  a 
certain  comradeship  even  in  the  midst  of  a 
boy's  rude  jokes,  and  from  that  I  was  always 
cut  off.  Still  it  was  not  so  hard  there.  The 
study  is  severe,  and  the  time  so  filled  with 


?2  A  SILENT  SOUL. 

military  discipline  that  I  had  few  unoccupied 
moments.  By  the  majority  of  the  boys,  after 
their  first  failure  to  '  get  on'  with  me,  I  was 
left  severely  alone,  —  almost  as  much  alone,  in 
fact,  as  the  young  colored  cadet  who  hap- 
pened to  be  there  at  the  same  time.  Yet  I  used 
to  think  even  his  case  was  happier  than  mine. 
He  was  steadily  ignored,  to  be  sure ;  but  the 
very  ignoring  was  a  recognition  of  his  person- 
ality. My  ignoring,  on  the  contrary,  was  un- 
premeditated and  careless.  They  simply  '  had 
no  use  for  me.' 

"  There  was  a  small  minority  of  young 
fellows  who  evidently  felt  it  their  duty  to 
notice  me  occasionally.  They  would  come 
to  my  room  and  try  to  be  friendly,  always 
showing  plainly  the  effort  that  they  made  in 
coming,  and  their  relief  when  the  visit  was 
over.  I  think  I  disliked  them,  for  all  their 
well-meant  courtesy,  more  than  the  other, 
ruder  boys. 

"  My  first  cruise  after  I  left  the  Academy 
was  to  Samoa.  It  had  often  seemed  the 
cruel  irony  of  fate  to  me  that  I,  of  all  men, 
should  have  adopted  a  profession  which  for 
long  periods  shuts  a  man  out  of  the  world 
with  a  little  handful  of  his  fellow-men,  all 
mutually  dependent  upon  each  other's  com- 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  73 

panionship.  Nowhere  in  the  world  is  the 
quality  of  geniality,  of  '  good  company,'  so 
needed,  as  on  shipboard.  My  first  cruise 
was  one  of  eighteen  months;  and  I  think, 
at  the  end  of  it,  every  officer  on  board  cor- 
dially disliked  me.  Not  only  had  I  been 
nothing,  a  mere  cipher,  a  negative,  but 
I  had  taken  the  place  of  a  man  who 
might  have  been  much.  I  had  defrauded 
them. 

"  By  this  time  I  had  learned  to  accept  my 
fate.  I  seldom  made  an  effort  to  find  a  voice 
for  the  pent-up  thoughts  and  feelings  within 
me.  Tt  seemed,  whenever  I  tried  to  express 
the  slightest  feeling,  to  say  anything,  in  fact, 
beyond  the  merest  commonplaces,  as  if 
something  paralyzed  my  very  tongue.  I 
could  not  even  look  the  things  I  felt ;  my 
face  was  as  wooden  as  my  tongue  was 
dumb. 

"  I  found  good  friends  in  books.  In  them  my 
imprisoned  mind  could  escape  from  its  dun- 
geon. I  read  and  studied  much.  I  did  my 
duty  on  shipboard  as  conscientiously  as  pos- 
sible, but  I  know  I  was  never  ordered  to  a 
vessel  that  the  officers  did  not  groan  over 
their  hard  luck  in  having  me  aboard. 

"  It   was    on   board  the  '  Kentucky,'  three 


74  A  SILENT  SOUL. 

years  ago,  that  I  saved  a  midshipman's  life. 
He  was  a  jolly  little  fellow,  fresh  from 
Annapolis.  I  think  every  one  on  board 
liked  him,  he  was  so  good-natured,  so  bright 
and  entertaining.  He  had  even  tried  to 
make  friends  with  me,  much  to  the  older 
officers'  amusement,  and  he  was  the  only 
person  I  ever  knew  who  did  not  seem  re- 
pelled by  the  lack  of  all  response  which  I 
gave  him. 

"  He  was  on  the  forecastle  in  an  ugly  gale, 
and  was  washed  overboard  by  a  head  sea. 
I  was  near  him  when  it  happened.  I  jumped 
after  him,  waited  for  him  to  rise,  and  swam 
toward  him.  He  was  nearly  insensible,  but 
I  kept  him  afloat  until  the  ship  hove  to  and 
sent  the  wh.ale-boat  back  for  us.  He  was 
so  grateful  to  me !  I  remember  how  he 
thanked  me  with  a  quivering  lip,  and  told 
me  how  his  mother  would  bless  me.  I  think 
I  had  a  chance  after  that  to  have  made 
friends.  I  mean,  there  was  a  kinder,  more 
hopeful  feeling  for  me  ;  but  I  could  not  re- 
spond. I  was  as  cold  and  rigid  and  silent 
as  ever,  and  the  little  blaze  of  warmth  soon 
died  away.  I  overheard  the  paymaster  speak 
of  me  one  day  as  '  our  life-saving  machine,' 
and  I  knew  by  the  roar  of  laughter  that  fol- 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  75 

lowed,   that  my  chance,  if  I  had    ever  had 
one,  was  past. 

"  But  the  little  midshipman  from  that  hour 
was  my  friend,  the  only  friend  I  ever  had. 
He  used  to  talk  to  me  of  his  home,  his 
mother,  his  life,  what  he  wanted  to  do  and 
to  be ;  and  I  listened  thirstily  and  eagerly, 
as  a  maiden  must  listen  to  her  lover's  words. 
I  could  not  answer,  —  I  could  not  even  let 
him  know  how  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk; 
but  he  never  seemed  to  mind.  He  trusted 
me  perfectly ;  and  if  now  and  then  my  cold 
silence  pained  him  and  he  left  me  a  little 
subdued,  he  would  soon  return  full  of  gener- 
ous confidence  again. 

"  I  loved  him  as  I  had  never  loved  any 
one.  I  tried  —  God  !  how  I  tried  !  —  to  tell 
or  show  him  that  I  did.  But  it  was  useless ; 
my  bonds  held  me  closely,  and  I  could 
not  break  them. 

"  My  young  friend  was  poor,  and  we  never 
put  into  port  but  I  bought  him  something, 
the  best  and  handsomest  that  I  could  find. 
But  I  never  gave  him  these  presents ;  an 
iron  hand  seemed  to  hold  me  fast :  and  yet 
I  think  I  was  never  so  happy  as  when  I 
bought  them  for  him.  Each  time  I  hoped 
against  hope  that  I  should  give  them  to  him. 


76  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

Many  a  time  he  has  been  in  my  room,  and 
I  have  gone  to  the  locker  where  I  kept  his 
things,  and  have  paused,  my  hand  on  the 
key  of  the  door.  I  could  not  open  it  ;  and 
I  have  turned  and  sat  down  beside  him,  cold, 
stern,  and  silent  as  ever. 

"One  day — at  Genoa  it  was  —  my  little 
midshipman  was  ordered  home.  I  think 
every  one  on  board,  from  the  captain  in  the 
cabin  to  the  cook  in  the  galley,  was  sorry. 
As  for  me,  I  felt  that  a  thick  darkness  had 
shut  in  and  closed  around  my  life. 

"  He  was  sorry  to  leave  us,  and  he  said 
good-by  to  all  the  other  officers  first,  leaving 
me  till  the  last.  I  was  in  my  room,  with  a 
great  ache  in  my  heart  when  he  came  in. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  he  came  toward 
me.  '  I  have  come  to  say  good-by,'  he 
said,  and  his  voice  broke.  He  choked  back 
the  sob  and  looked  at  me,  and  I  see  now,  as 
I  have  seen  night  and  day  since  that  awful 
hour,  his  honest  young  face,  and  his  tear- 
filled  eyes  shining  with  the  great  love  he 
had  for  me.  I  tried  to  reach  out  my  arms 
and  take  him  ;  I  tried  to  speak,  to  let  him 
know  what  I  felt  ;  and  then,  oh,  then  —  I 
said  good-by  as  calmly,  as  quietly  and  heart- 
lessly, as  if  I  were  speaking  to  an  utter 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  JJ 

stranger.  I  did  not  even  hold  out  my  hand. 
He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  in  that 
moment  I  felt  that  I  had  stabbed  him  to  the 
heart. 

"  His  surprised  expression  changed  to  a 
hurt,  wounded  one  ;  and  then  the  color  came 
to  his  cheeks,  he  shut  his  lips  proudly,  and 
turned  and  left  me,  carrying  his  head  very 
high,  and  holding  himself  very  straight.  I 
found  out  afterward  that  the  launch  which 
was  to  take  him  ashore  was  not  ready  for 
half  an  hour,  and  I  know  he  meant  to  spend 
that  time  with  me.  Where  he  went  to,  I  do 
not  know;  but  /  spent  that  half-hour  in 
hell. 

"  That  night,  after  the  lights  were  all  out, 
I  went  to  the  locker  where  I  had  put  the 
things  that  I  had  bought  for  him.  I  took 
them  out,  recognizing  each  one  by  touch, 
and  I  think  I  felt  as  a  woman  feels  when  she 
looks  at  the  little  garments  made  for  the 
child  that  died  when  it  was  born.  I  took 
them  one  by  one,  and  going  to  the  port-hole 
I  dropped  them  out  into  the  darkness  and 
the  waiting  sea. 

"  I  sat  there  through  the  whole  night,  think- 
ing ;  and  I  decided  then,  and  have  believed 
ever  since,  that  I  was  a  dumb  spirit,  a  silent 


/8  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

soul.  There  are  people  who,  from  different 
causes,  cannot  speak,  who  go  through  life 
shut  out  from  the  world  of  language.  We 
call  them  mutes ;  and  I  was,  I  think,  spirit- 
ually such  a  one.  But  mine  was  far  the 
greater  affliction;  an  imprisoned  soul  is  worse 
than  a  silent  tongue.  I  could  ask  for  bread 
if  I  were  hungry;  for  warmth,  if  I  were  cold. 
It  was  only  when  I  tried  to  express  a  feeling 
of  my  heart,  an  emotion,  that  I  was  dumb. 
I  do  not  know  if  there  have  been  other  men 
like  me.  God  pity  them,  if  there  have  been  ! 
but  this  I  know :  that  for  some  reason  known 
only  to  my  Maker,  I  have  lived  a  silent  soul, 
a  soul  as  utterly  voiceless  as  any  mute  in  an 
asylum." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  us  all  a  moment, 
smiling  as  if  relieved.  He  had  spoken  with 
great  difficulty,  his  voice  sinking  at  times  to 
a  whisper,  and  yet  eagerly,  as  if  a  force 
stronger  than  he  compelled  him  to  speak. 

Alice  had  watched  him,  never  taking  her 
eyes  from  his  face.  She  had  a  curious 
expression  of  expectancy  mingled  with  her 
tender,  compassionate  look.  She  leaned 
over  and  took  his  other  hand  as  he  ceased, 
and  holding  them  both,  said  softly,  "  Thank 
God  that  you  can  tell  them  !  " 


A    SILENT  SOUL.  79 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her  face  a  moment. 
"  There  is  not  much  more  to  tell,"  he  said ; 
and  then,  looking  at  Carroll,  he  added,  "  but 
you  must  hear  this,  —  it  is  your  right.  After 
that  night  when  I  faced  and  acknowledged 
my  fate,  I  do  not  think  I  ever  made  another 
attempt  to  let  myself  be  known.  I  simply 
lived  my  life  within  myself,  bearing  my  bur- 
den as  well  as  I  could,  and  gaining  at  least 
this  much,  — that  I  had  no  more  fearful,  useless 
struggles  to  express  what  I  felt. 

"  Then  I  came  here ;  and  Carroll,  —  oh, 
how  can  I  tell  it  to  you  !  —  when  I  saw  her, 
your  Alice,  I  knew  that  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  could  speak.  You  will  not  believe 
it.  It  is  all  strange  and  mysterious ;  but  to 
her  and  with  her  the  terrible  bonds  which 
had  held  me  all  my  life  were  broken.  I 
could  tell  my  thought,  make  known  my  feel- 
ing: my  soul  could  find  a  voice.  What  light 
is  to  the  blind,  and  the  first  sound  of  voices 
to  the  deaf,  that  was  this  knowledge  to  me ; 
and  then,  with  the  knowledge  that  it  was  pos- 
sible to  let  another  human  heart  know  mine, 
came  the  consciousness  that  this  other  heart 
was  a  woman's,  and  belonged  to  you. 

"  She  was  the  one  person  in  this  world  who 
could  ever  have  known  me,  and  I  had  a  right 


8O  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

to  her,  as  the  dying  have  the  right  to  the  one 
thing  that  may  save  them ;  but  you  had  a 
right  to  her,  because  she  loved  you.  I 
thought  at^first  that  I  would  go  away  ;  but  I 
was  not  strong  enough  for  that.  Life  is  sweet 
to  the  dead,  and  I  was  one  risen  from  the 
dead. 

"  I  could  not  go  away  from  her.  I  would 
have  stayed  in  her  presence  always,  if  it  had 
been  possible.  It  was  so  heavenly  sweet  to 
feel  my  soul  stir  within  me,  and  know  that  I 
could  tell  her  what  I  felt,  could  think  my 
thought  and  speak  it !  Then,  Carroll,  I  have 
watched  your  face  and  known  that  I  was 
taking  your  heart's  blood,  drop  by  drop,  and 
I  have  come  up  to  this  very  room,  and  fought 
such  battles  with  myself  that  my  soul  will 
carry  the  scars  with  it  to  another  world.  I 
could  not  go.  Do  you  suppose  a  prisoner 
who  has  tasted  freedom,  who  has  breathed 
the  fresh  air  and  felt  the  sunshine,  will  go 
voluntarily  back  to  his  dungeon  for  another 
man's  sake? 

"  As  for  her  —  Alice  —  I  do  not  know  how 
much  of  all  this  she  has  known.  I  have 
never  told  her  what  she  was  to  me.  Indeed,  I 
never  talked  much  to  her  ;  for  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  being  able  to,  was  almost  enough 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  8 1 

for  a  poor  wretch  like  me.  I  think  her  pure, 
white  soul  recognized  mine  in  all  its  silent 
misery,  and  knew  in  some  strange  way  that 
she  could  help  me.  I  think  she  gave  me 
that  unselfish  devotion  which  the  woman  soul 
gives,  the  world  over,  to  the  wretched.  I 
need  not  tell  you,  Carroll,  that  her  every  word 
and  thought  has  been  most  loyally  yours.  I 
was  simply  to  her  a  poor  creature  in  distress, 
whom  by  some  unknown  means  her  presence 
helped  and  comforted." 

He  stopped  again  and  looked  at  Alice. 
"  Alice,"  he  said,  "  you  understand  it  all  now, 
dear.  I  could  not  help  it  I  should  have 
gone  away,  but  it  was  so  sweet,  so  sweet !  I 
do  not  think  I  should  ever  have  been  strong 
enough  to  leave  you.  Oh,  how  much  better 
it  is  that  it  should  end  like  this !  " 

Alice  passed  her  hand  over  his  forehead 
and  down  his  cheek.  "  There,"  she  said 
gently,  "  the  trouble  is  all  over  now ;  do  not 
think  about  it  any  more."  She  spoke  sooth- 
ingly, as  one  would  to  a  little  child. 

I  was  crying  hard,  and  my  whole  heart  was 
filled  with  pity  for  this  poor  man  whom  I  had 
so  misjudged. 

Carroll  turned  and  walked  across  the  room, 
then  came  back  and  stood  by  Alice's  side. 
6 


82  A  SILENT  SOUL. 

"  Clifford,"  he  began  brokenly,  "  don't  talk 
like  that.  You  will  get  well,  if  just  to 
let  us  show  you  how  much  we  care  for 
you.  Clifford,  I  am  so  sorry  —  I  have  been 
so  unjust.  I —  Oh,  Clifford,  you  must  get 
well !  " 

Alice  looked  up  at  Carroll  quickly.  "  Oh, 
hush !  "  she  said,  her  quicker  instincts  seeing 
that  it  was  no  comfort  he  was  giving  the 
dying  man. 

A  ghastly  expression  came  over  Clifford's 
face.  "  I  live  !  "  he  murmured.  "  O  God  !  " 
Then  as  the  look  faded  he  said  :  "  No,  Carroll, 
no.  God  is  not  so  cruel  as  that.  Do  you 
suppose  I  could  talk  as  I  have,  and  live,  ?  Ah, 
no ;  it  is  death,  merciful,  pitying  death,  that 
has  loosed  my  bonds  and  given  me  power,  in 
this  the  last  hour  of  my  life,  to  speak.  I  am 
so  thankful !  You  will  not  remember  me 
now  as  harsh  and  treacherous.  Oh,  what  if 
I  had  never  spoken,  —  if  I  had  had  to  die 
silently,  as  I  have  lived !  I  have  cared  so 
much  for  you  both,  Mary  and  Carroll,  I  have 
so  longed  to  tell  you !  You  have  never 
spoken  one  kind  word  to  me  but  I  have  loved 
and  blessed  you  for  it." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  there  was  a  little  commo- 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  83 

tion  in  the  hall,  and  the  doctor  came  in.  He 
looked  at  Clifford  sharply,  and  beckoned  to 
me  to  follow  him  into  the  hall. 

"  I  am  surprised  to  find  him  alive,"  he  said 
quietly  ;  "  has  he  talked  much?  " 

"  Incessantly,  "  I  answered,  and  added,  "  Is 
there  no  hope  for  him?  " 

"  None,"  said  the  doctor,  sadly.  "  I  should 
say  he  was  dying  now,  but  he  must  have 
greater  vitality  than  I  thought" 

We  went  back  into  the  room,  and  were  all 
with  Clifford  when  he  died.  He  hardly  spoke 
again.  It  was  as  if  his  soul  was  charged  with 
a  message  it  had  to  deliver,  and  having  done 
that,  was  glad  to  go. 

We  found  among  his  papers  a  sealed  packet, 
directed  to  the  midshipman  whose  life  he 
had  saved,  and  in  the  few  lines  of  his  short 
will  he  left  him  all  he  had. 

A  few  days  after  the  funeral,  Alice  and 
Carroll  and  I  were  in  the  garden.  They  were 
walking  up  and  down  together,  while  I  sat 
sewing  on  one  of  the  garden-seats.  I  could 
hear  quite  plainly  what  they  said,  when  they 
were  near  me,  but  they  did  not  mind.  Carroll 
was  talking  of  their  wedding. 

"Shall  we  wait  until  spring,  Alice?"  he 
said.  "  You  have  gone  through  so  much 


84  A   SILENT  SOUL. 

lately,  poor  little  girl !  It  has  all  been  so 
terrible  for  you.  You  will  want  to  rest  a 
little,  won't  you?  " 

"  No,  Carroll,"  said  my  darling,  slipping 
her  hand  in  his  arm,  while  her  face  grew  as 
rosy  as  the  flower  in  her  hand.  "  No,  Carroll, 
I  think  it  will  be  better  soon.  You  see  this 
has  all  been  so  unnatural,  so  strange,  I  cannot 
tell  half  the  time  if  I  am  dreaming.  I  want 
to  get  away  from  it.  I  want  to  get  back  to 
simple,  natural  ways  of  thinking.  I  don't 
think  this  has  been  quite  wholesome." 

He  took  her  hand.  "You  think  — "  he 
began  eagerly. 

"  I  think,"  she  went  on  bravely,  "  that  I  need 
your  love  now  more  than  ever  in  my  life,  to 
strengthen  and  steady  me  ;  and  I  will  marry 
you  whenever  you  want  me  to." 

They  walked  on  down  to  the  end  of  the 
garden,  and  when  they  came  back  they  were 
talking  of  poor  Clifford. 

"  Carroll,"  said  Alice,  "  that  first  night, 
when  I  fainted,  I  looked  him  straight  in  the 
eyes  for  the  first  time,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  saw  his  very  soul.  It  was  all  misery. 
I  never  saw  anything  so  dreadful.  He  was 
like  a  hunted,  wounded  animal  to  me,  or  like 
a  little  child  who  has  been  cruelly  injured.  I 


A   SILENT  SOUL.  85 

/tad  to  help  him,  —  he  needed  me.  I  could 
not  bear  to  have  him  misunderstood,  /could 
not  understand  him,  but  I  knew  he  was  not 
what  you  and  Mary  thought.  I  had  to  go  to 
him  when  he  looked  at  me ;  it  was  like  re- 
fusing bread  to  a  starving  man,  not  to.  But 
I  was  not  happy,  and  I  could  not  tell  you.  I 
could  not  explain  it;  I  knew  you  would 
laugh  at  me  and  call  it  all  fancy.  I  should 
never  have  known  about  it,  if  he  had  not  told 
us  himself." 

They  were  married  that  autumn,  and  are 
as  happy  as  even  I  could  wish. 

Henry  Clifford  is  buried  in  the  little  family 
burying-lot,  and  it  was  Alice  who  had  en- 
graved on  his  head-stone,  under  his  name 
and  age,  "  Then  shall  we  know,  even  as  we 
are  known." 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S   GEESE. 

ESTHER  GODWIN  stood  at  her  side  door 
counting  her  geese.  They  had  just 
been  fed,  and  were  on  their  way  to  the  goose 
pond,  waddling  along  with  that  peculiar  air  of 
bumptiousness  and  importance  which  always 
makes  their  name  seem  so  appropriate. 

"There's  seventeen  of  'em,"  said  Miss 
Esther ;  "  seventeen  at  eight  pounds  a  piece, 
and  a  shilling  a  pound,  that's  — let  me  see  — 
eight  shillings  is  a  dollar,  that 's  —  why,  that 's 
seventeen  dollars !  " 

She  seemed  surprised  at  the  simplicity  with 
which  her  problem  worked  itself  out. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  '11  really  get  more  than 
fourteen  or  fifteen  dollars  for  the  lot,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  but  that  '11  get  a  splendid  Thanks- 
giving dinner,  and  have  some  to  spare.  Fifteen 
dollars  is  a  lot  of  money." 

She  was  a  plump  little  woman,  with  rosy 
cheeks  and  black  hair,  which  was  just  beginning 
to  turn  gray.  She  would  have  been  pretty 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  87 

but  for  the  look  of  anxiety  and  apprehension 
which  had  become  habitual.  It  gave  one  the 
impression  that  she  had  had  many  troubles, 
and  was  waiting  nervously  for  the  next,  which 
she  felt  sure  was  on  the  way. 

Her  little  farm,  which  stretched  away  toward 
the  creek,  behind  the  low,  white  farmhouse, 
had  the  tired,  discouraged  look  which  farms 
sometimes  wear.  The  barns  were  shabby 
and  wanted  painting ;  the  fences  were  poor ; 
and  any  farmer  could  have  told  you  at  a 
glance  that  the  whole  place  needed  ditching 
and  draining.  Around  the  house  itself  every- 
thing was  neat  and  clean.  Marigolds  and 
China-asters  were  blooming  in  the  little 
garden,  and  some  late  sweet-peas,  having 
climbed  far  above  their  supporting  brush, 
were  nodding  triumphantly  at  every  breeze. 
The  milk-pans  that  were  sunning  themselves 
on  a  little  bench  were  dazzlingly  bright,  and 
there  were  no  chips  or  litter  of  any  kind 
around  the  kitchen  door. 

As  far  as  one  pair  of  hands  could  do  it,  the 
work  had  been  well  done ;  but  it  is  hard  for  a 
woman  to  run  a  farm  alone,  especially  if  it  is 
encumbered  with  a  mortgage  to  start  with. 
Besides  the  farm  Miss  Esther  had  an  invalid 
mother  to  take  care  of  when  Richard  Godwin 


88       ESTHER  GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

died  and  left  her  at  the  head  of  his  somewhat 
involved  affairs. 

She  had  nursed  her  mother  patiently  and 
tenderly  until  she  died,  and  since  then  she 
had  done  the  best  she  could  with  her  poor 
little  farm ;  but  the  mortgage  had  hung  over 
it  like  a  heavy  thunder-cloud,  and  life  had 
been  more  of  a  struggle  than  a  frolic  to  Esther 
Godwin. 

However,  this  was  to  be  her  last  year  in  the 
old  home.  She  was  going  to  sell  everything, 
pay  all  the  old  debts,  and  then,  with  a  snug 
little  balance  in  her  favor,  she  hoped  to  go  to 
live  with  her  brother  in  the  city. 

She  was  too  sensible  a  woman  to  mourn 
deeply  over  the  impending  change  in  her 
affairs.  She, regretted  it,  but  she  accepted  it 
cheerfully.  She  said  to  herself  in  a  practical 
sort  of  way, — 

"  I  can't  keep  the  farm,  and  it 's  no  use 
pretending  I  can.  I  aint  a-going  to  stay  in 
one  room  and  shut  up  the  rest  of  the  house, 
and  half  starve,  living  on  a  flake  or  two  of 
mackerel  and  a  little  dab  of  quince  jell ! 
That 's  the  way  old  Mis'  Pierson  does.  She 
may  call  it  being  independent  if  she  chooses ; 
but  I  say  it 's  just  indecent,  and  she  with  a  son 
that 's  ready  to  take  her  and  do  for  her,  out 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S   GEESE.  89 

in  Colorady  !  Of  course,  if  things  was  differ- 
ent — "  and  here  Miss  Esther's  eyes  were  apt 
to  grow  a  little  sad  as  they  wandered  over  her 
pasture  lot  to  the  rail  fence  that  separated  her 
little  farm  from  Simon  Bushnell's  well-tilled 
acres. 

The  apple-trees  in  his  orchard  hung  over 
her  rail  fence,  and  many  an  apple  in  the 
autumn  dropped  over  on  her  side.  But 
Miss  Esther  never  picked  them  up  now. 
There  was  a  time  when  they  might  all  have 
been  her  apples,  but  that  was  long  ago. 
Miss  Esther  never  spoke  of  her  old-time  lover, 
—  in  fact  she  had  never  spoken  but  once  of 
her  unhappy  love-affair. 

That  was  when  her  mother  died  and  her 
brother  James  had  exercised  his  right,  as 
head  of  the  family,  to  question  her. 

"  Whatever  was  the  trouble  'tween  you  and 
Simon  Bushnell,  Esther?  "  he  asked. 

Miss  Esther  bit  her  lip  and  turned  very 
white. 

"  There  was  n't  no  trouble,  James,"  she 
answered ;  "he  —  you  see  —  you  see  —  he  's  a 
sort  of  quick-tempered  man,  and  terrible  sot 
in  his  ways.  We  'd  been  engaged  about  two 
months  when  his  mother  died,  and  he  came 
a-prancin'  over  one  evening  and  wanted  I 


90  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

should  marry  him  right  away.  He  said  he 
was  awful  lonely  and  getting  terrible  tired  of 
Mis'  Sanders'  cooking.  I  found  out  afterward 
she  had  n't  given  him  nothing  but  batter  cakes 
for  dinner  that  day,  and  Simon  never  could 
abide  batter  cakes.  I  think  myself  they  set 
like  lead  in  your  stomach.  Well,  I  told  him 
it  was  n't  no  time  to  be  marryin'  with  my 
mother  flat  on  her  back,  and  his  mother  just 
laid  in  her  grave.  The  truth  was  I  was  n't 
ready.  I  had  n't  made  a  thing  but  two  flannel 
petticoats,  and  hemmed  some  towels,  and  I 
was  n't  going  to  marry  no  man  without  a 
decent  setting  out." 

She  stopped  a  little  and  sighed. 

"What  did  he  say,  Esther?"  asked  her 
brother.  • 

"  He  said  he  guessed  that  was  as  good  a 
time  as  any,  but  I  would  n't  hear  to  it.  Then 
he  flared  up  and  said,  '  Well,  it 's  now  or 
never,'  and  then  I  flared  up  too,  and  said, 
'  Well,  Simon,  it  may  be  never  for  all  o' 
me.'  Then  he  walked  off,  holding  his  head 
high  and  toppin',  and  I  kept  thinking 
he  'd  turn  'round  and  come  back  ;  but  he 
did  n't,  and,  James,  he 's  never  so  much  as 
spoke  to  me  since,  nor  even  looked  this 
way." 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  91 

"Well,"  said  her  brother,  thoughtfully, 
"  he  must  have  been  awful  mad." 

"  He  was,  James,  he  was ;  but  that  aint  no 
reason  why  he  should  drive  by  every  day, 
a-looking  straight  ahead  as  if  he  was  afraid 
my  lilac  bushes  and  apple-trees  would  sort 
of  poison  him  if  he  happened  to  get  a  sight 
of  'em.  I  don't  want  to  marry  him,  good- 
ness knows  —  I  Ve  had  trouble  enough  as 
't  is  ;  but  I  do  like  to  live  friendly-like  with 
all  my  neighbors." 

"  P'r'aps  he  '11  come  'round  yet,"  suggested 
James. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  won't,"  said  Miss  Esther,  with 
earnestness.  "  I  know  Simon  Bushnell  through 
and  through.  If  there  should  be  an  earth- 
quake, or  some  such  thing,  and  I  should  be 
shot  up  into  the  air  and  land  in  his  front 
yard,  then  mebbe  he  'd  speak,  —  'cos  he  'd 
be  so  astonished  he  'd  forget  he  was  mad. 
But  nothin'  that  happened  just  ordinary  like 
would  make  him  budge  an  inch.  I  believe 
he  'd  drive  right  by  a-looking  between  his 
horse's  ears,  if  it  was  my  own  funeral,  and 
I  was  being  carried  out  the  door." 

"  You  have  n't  ever  spoke  to  him,  Esther?  " 

Miss  Esther's  lip  curled. 

"  Speak  to  him  !     Well,  I  should  say  not, 


92  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

and  never  will  till  the  crack  o'  doom.  I  told 
him  it  might  be  '  never  for  all  o'  me,'  and 
so  it  may.  Not  but  what  't  would  have  been 
convenient,  with  the  farms  joining  the  way 
they  do  and  all ;  but  it  will  never  happen 
now,  never." 

"  Well,"  said  her  brother,  kindly,  "  I  Ve  got 
a  home  for  you,  Esther,  whenever  you're  a 
mind  to  come.  If  you  want  to  stay  here  a 
while  longer  in  the  old  place,  why  you  can ; 
but  don't  never  get  to  feeling  that  you  are 
homeless  or  friendless,  'cos  you  aint." 

Miss  Esther  was  silent,  but  she  looked  at 
him  gratefully. 

That  was  four  years  ago,  and  she  had 
struggled  on  alone;  but  the  time  had  come 
now  when  she  must  accept  her  brother's 
offer.  She  did  not  rebel  against  her  fate; 
but  she  had  one  aspiration,  one  keen  desire, 
which  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  gratify. 
She  wanted  once,  just  once,  before  the  prop- 
erty passed  out  of  her  hands  forever,  to  have 
a  family  party  at  the  old  home,  —  to  end 
her  solitary  life,  as  it  were,  in  a  blaze  of 
glory. 

She  decided  to  have  it  a  Thanksgiving 
party,  and  she  invited  her  brother  and  his 
wife  and  their  four  children,  her  Uncle  Josiah 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  93 

and  his  wife,  and  her  father's  cousin,  who 
taught  school  in  the  neighboring  village. 

"There  '11  be  ten  of  us,"  she  said  over  and 
over,  "and  it's  lucky  there 's  just  ten  left  of 
them  blue  chiny  plates." 

Her  unconscious  geese  were  to  provide  the 
feast,  not  in  propria  persona,  but  fatted  and 
sold  and  converted  into  turkey,  cranberry 
sauce,  mince  pie,  and  all  other  kinds  of  good 
Thanksgiving  fare. 

Miss  Esther  took  a  great  deal  of  pride  in 
this  her  last  appearance  as  a  landholder  and 
a  hostess. 

"  I  want  to  let  'em  see,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
aint  coming  to  them  'cos  I  'm  driv  to  it,  and 
clean  at  the  end  of  my  rope.  I  want  'em  all 
to  come  here  once,  and  see  the  pianner  and 
the  Brussels  carpet  in  the  parlor  and  the  new 
tidies  and  all,  and  I  '11  give  'em  such  a  dinner 
as  they  can't  get  —  no,  not  in  New  York,  for 
all  its  style." 

So  for  weeks  the  thought  of  her  Thanks- 
giving dinner  was  uppermost  in  Miss  Esther's 
mind.  She  planned  for  it  by  day  and  dreamed 
of  it  by  night.  Every  inch  of  the  little  farm- 
house was  thoroughly  cleaned.  She  mended 
whatever  a  woman's  hands  could  mend,  and 
painted  the  worn  wood-work  with  careful 


94  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

touch.  She  had  a  crock  of  June  butter 
packed  down  in  the  cellar  and  an  extra  fine 
ham  hanging  in  the  coolest  corner.  Mean- 
time the  seventeen  geese,  which  represented 
the  biggest  part  of  the  Thanksgiving  dinner, 
grew  daily  fatter  and  fatter. 

It  was  about  the  first  week  in  November 
when  Miss  Esther  determined  one  bright 
sunny  morning  to  go  down  into  her  cellar 
and  look  over  her  preserve  closet.  It  was 
a  light,  cheerful  cellar,  kept  in  spotless  order. 
Miss  Esther  lifted  down  all  the  jars  and 
tumblers,  while  she  wiped  off  the  shelves. 
Then  she  wiped  off  each  jar,  and  as  she  put 
it  back  in  its  place  she  commented  upon  its 
contents  and  state  of  preservation. 

"  Them  strawberries  are  as  lovely  as  the 
day  they  was  put  up,"  she  said  admiringly; 
"  and  I  never  did  see  such  color  to  raspberry 
jam,  and  I  declare  if  here  aint  a  jar  of  them 
old  brandy  cherries.  I  did  n't  know  there 
was  any  of  'em  left  ;  it 's  —  why  it 's  three 
years  ago  since  that  old  ox-heart  tree  bore 
so  unexpected.  My !  They  're  all  mouldy 
on  top  !  I  wonder  what 's  the  matter." 

She  unscrewed  the  top  and  smelt  of  the 
contents  critically. 

"  Land  sakes  !  "  she  ejaculated  ;  "  if  they  aint 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  95 

worked !  Well !  I  never  knew  my  brandy 
cherries  act  like  that  before  no  matter  how 
long  they  was  kept.  Well,  I  should  think  as 
much !  If  here  aint  a  great  hole  in  the 
cover.  Now  how  did  that  come?  I  don't 
believe  there  's  any  use  scalding  'em  over,  — 
they  're  too  far  gone  for  that.  I  '11  just  have 
to  throw  'em  away." 

So  she  put  the  jar  upon  the  cellar  stairs  to 
be  carried  up  when  she  went,  and  resumed 
her  work. 

"  I  '11  have  some  peaches  for  tea  Thanks- 
giving night,"  she  said,  "  with  whipped  cream 
and  sponge  cake.  They  won't  want  any- 
thing very  hearty  after  all  that  dinner." 

It  was  quite  late  before  she  finished,  and 
leaving  everything  in  immaculate  order  went 
up  stairs  to  cook  her  solitary  dinner. 

She  used  to  lie  down  for  a  little  while  each 
day  after  dinner,  and  then  take  her  work  and 
sit  in  the  west  window  of  her  little  sitting- 
room,  where  the  afternoon  sun  was  coming 
in. 

To-day  she  was  finishing  a  pillow  sham, 
which  was  designed  as  a  last  crushing  piece 
of  elegance  for  her  Thanksgiving  guests. 
But  she  had  hardly  threaded  her  needle  when 
glancing  out  across  the  yard  she  saw  a  sight 


96  ESTHER    GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

that  startled  her.  There  were  her  geese  — 
her  seventeen  Thanksgiving  geese  —  acting 
in  the  strangest  manner.  Some  of  them 
were  dead,  others  were  dying,  and  a  few 
were  staggering  around  helplessly  as  if  it  were 
only  a  question  of  seconds  when  their  end 
should  come  too. 

She  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  hur- 
ried out  to  them,  full  of  anxiety  and  alarm. 

Some  of  them  rose  to  their  feet  at  her 
approach  and  took  a  few  tottering  steps,  only 
to  fall  again  in  white  unconscious  heaps. 
Others  stretched  out  their  necks  and  squawked 
dismally,  and  they  all  looked  at  her  with 
keen  reproach. 

Miss  Esther  almost  cried. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  "what  ails  you,  you 
poor  feeble-minded  creatures  ?  What 's  come 
to  you  ;  have  you  been  poisoned,  or  what?  " 

But  the  geese  made  no  answer,  though  one 
old  gander  squawked  incoherently  as  he 
tried  to  walk  away  in  his  usual  stately 
manner.  The  effort  was  too  much  for  him ; 
he  sank  down  helpless  and  expiring. 

Miss  Esther  could  hardly  suppress  a  scream. 
Her  Thanksgiving  dinner  seemed  to  be  van- 
ishing before  her  eyes. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  cried,  "oh,  what 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  97 

shall  I  do?  They've  all  been  poisoned. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

Just  then  a  bright  thought  shot  across  the 
dark  despair  that  filled  her  mind.  Her  geese 
were  dying  ;  it  was  too  late  to  help  them 
now.  But  the  feathers  —  she  might  yet  save 
the  feathers,  and  so  prevent  them  from  being 
a  total  loss.  But  if  they  were  to  be  live 
geese  feathers,  and  that  was  the  only  kind 
Miss  Esther  considered  of  any  value,  they 
must  be  secured  at  once. 

She  did  not  hesitate.  She  seized  two  of 
the  dying  geese  and  bore  them  into  her 
little  kitchen. 

Hastily  spreading  down  a  clean  sheet  upon 
her  spotless  floor,  she  began  to  pluck  them 
hurriedly. 

The  first  goose  gave  no  sign  of  life ;  but 
the  second  squawked  resentfully  all  through 
the  operation. 

The  tears  stood  in  Miss  Esther's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  dreadful,"  she  said,  "  to 
pluck  them  in  their  dying  moments !  not 
even  to  let  them  die  in  peace  !  Poor  things, 
poor  things !  But  it 's  got  to  be  done,  — 
it's  got  to  be  done." 

She  worked  away  with  nervous,  despairing 
energy,  until  the  entire  seventeen  denuded 
7 


98  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

corpses  were  stretched  upon  the  kitchen- 
floor.  The  sheet  was  piled  with  a  great 
snowy  mound  of  fluffy  feathers.  She  gath- 
ered it  up  by  the  four  corners,  and  took  it 
up  into  the  wood-house  chamber,  where  she 
spread  the  feathers  to  dry. 

Then  she  came  down  and  looked  at  the 
seventeen  prostrate  geese,  wondering  what 
disposition  she  had  better  make  of  them. 

Suddenly  one  of  them  rose  to  its  feet, 
gazed  at  her  mournfully,  and  then  staggered 
with  weak  unsteady  legs  toward  the  closed 
door. 

Miss  Esther  watched  the  supposed  corpse 
with  horror.  Its  breast  was  quite  bare,  and 
it  presented  the  singular  appearance  that  a 
man  would  make,  whose  toilet  was  complete 
but  for  the  absence  of  his  shirt. 

Miss  Esther  rushed  to  the  door  and  opened 
it,  and  gazed  after  the  goose,  as  it  slipped 
weakly  forth. 

"  Land's  sake  !  "  she  said  hoarsely,  "  aint 
you  dead  ?  " 

The  goose  did  n't  answer.  It  walked  on, 
as  if  it  were  shaking  the  dust  of  her  inhospi- 
table house  forever  from  its  feet. 

Miss  Esther  turned  around,  weary  and  per- 
plexed, only  to  find  that  two  more  of  the 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  99 

stricken  creatures  had  arisen,  and  were  feebly 
moving  about. 

"  O  dear  !  oh  dear  !  "  she  cried,  "what  is  the 
matter  with  you?  It's  worse  having  you 
come  to  life  than  it  was  having  you  die. 
What  shall  I  do  with  you  now?" 

But  these  geese,  too,  walked  out  in  dignified 
silence.  One  of  them  stopped  at  the  door, 
and  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  looked  at 
Miss  Esther  in  a  peculiarly  silly  manner,  at 
the  same  time  uttering  a  most  unseemly 
squawk. 

She  threw  her  apron  over  her  head. 

"  Oh,  my,"  she  cried,  "  the  creature  winked 
at  me !  I  never  saw  such  goings  on  in  all 
my  born  days  !  " 

All  the  flock  but  two  finally  recovered  their 
power  of  motion,  and  went  out  into  the  yard. 
These  two  stretched  their  necks  now  and  then 
in  a  comfortable,  rustling  sort  of  way,  and 
then  settled  back  into  repose.  They  seemed 
to  say,  "  Do  not  wake  me,  let  me  dream 
again  ;  "  and  so  Miss  Esther  left  them  and 
followed  the  other  fifteen  out,  anxious  to  see 
what  new  antics  they  were  performing.  They 
eagerly  began  to  eat,  and  Miss  Esther,  draw- 
ing a  little  closer,  understood  it  all. 

"  It 's    those   brandy   cherries !  "    she    ex- 


100  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

claimed.  "  Whoever  would  have  thought 
you  'd  go  to  gobbling  them  up  !  Well,  well, 
so  that 's  what 's  been  the  matter  with  you ! 
Well,  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  I  truly  am !  " 

She  looked  at  them  severely  ;  but  the  geese 
seemed  to  show  no  repentance  for  their  re- 
cent spree,  and  continued  to  eat  eagerly  all 
that  were  left  of  the  cherries. 

"  Shoo,"  said  Miss  Esther,  waving  her 
hands,  "  shoo,  shoo !  You  sha'n't  have 
another  single  one,  you  wicked,  guzzlin' 
creatures ! " 

She  carefully  picked  up  all  the  remaining 
cherries. 

"  Now  what  am  I  going  to  do  with  you, 
with  your  breasts  all  raw  and  bleeding?  A 
pretty  looking  set  you  are  !  " 

The  geese  looked  mournful.  They  had 
never  faced  a  November  night  with  such 
exposed  chests  before. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Esther,  resignedly,  "I 
suppose  you  '11  have  to  come  into  the  wood- 
shed and  sleep  to-night.  It 's  a  most  mons- 
tropolous  performance,  the  whole  thing." 

"  Monstropolous"  was  a  word  she  rarely 
used,  and  only  to  express  some  unprecedented 
and  really  dreadful  affair. 

She   had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  re- 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  IOI 

sponsibility  for  their  condition.  She  had 
plucked  them  herself,  in  what  she  believed 
were  their  death-agonies.  She  could  not  let 
them  suffer  now,  for  her  act  of  cruelty.  She 
thought  about  them  all  night,  and  in  the 
morning  a  brilliant  idea  came  to  her. 

"  What  they  need  is  chest  protectors,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  and  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  n't  make  'em  some.  There  's  all  that 
battin'  left  from  the  quilts,  and  that  ball  of 
green  string  I  got  for  the  morning-glories  to 
run  on.  I  '11  just  make  'em  some  comfortable 
little  pads,  and  tie  'em  on." 

And  so  she  did ;  she  cut,  and  fitted  seven- 
teen chest-protectors,  and  tied  them  on  to  her 
denuded  geese.  Then  she  opened  her  kitchen 
door,  and  her  little  flock  stalked  forth.  She 
was  quite  excited  with  the  success  of  her 
experiment,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  watch- 
ing them,  a  bright  spot  of  color  glowing  on 
'either  cheek. 

At  just  that  moment  Simon  Bushnell  drove 
by,  but  Miss  Esther  did  not  see  him.  If  she 
had  she  would  have  noticed  how  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  changed  from  indifference  to 
surprise,  and  then  amazement  and  consterna- 
tion. He  had  driven  by  for  many  years,  his 
eyes  apparently  fixed  upon  the  headstall ; 


IO2  ESTHER   GODWIN'S   GEESE. 

he  had  passed  her  coldly  by  in  her  little 
pleasures  and  greater  sorrows.  But  now  the 
unexpected  had  happened.  The  sight  of 
seventeen  geese  in  cotton-batting  chest-pro- 
tectors, tied  on  with  green  strings,  broke 
down  the  reserve  of  years. 

He  stopped  his  horse,  and  looked  and 
looked  again. 

"  Esther,"  he  cried,  "  why,  Esther,  what  is 
the  matter,?  " 

She  saw  him  there.  "  It 's  nothing,  Simon," 
she  answered ;  "  you  need  n't  stop." 

Then  she  went  into  the  house,  without 
giving  him  another  glance ;  but  she  left  the 
door  open  behind  her. 

He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  he  drove  up 
to  the  old  hitching-post,  which  so  many  horses 
had  chewed  that  it  seemed  to  be  all  frayed 
out.  He  tied  his  horse,  and  passing  by  the 
strange-looking  geese,  he  followed  Miss  Esther 
into  her  little  kitchen. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as  if 
she  were  waiting  for  him.  Her  heart  was 
fluttering  wildly,  but  her  face  was  firm  and 
fixed. 

"  Why,  Esther,"  he  said  again,  "  what  is 
the  matter?  What  have  you  got  on  those 
geese?" 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  103 

"  Chest-protectors,"    she  answered  shortly. 

"  Ch-chest-protectors  !  "  he  stammered  after 
her.  Then  he  looked  at  her  keenly.  Was 
she  going  insane? 

"  I  plucked  them  yesterday,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  'cos  I  thought  they  was  dying. 
They  acted  so  queer  and  flopped  over  on 
their  sides  so.  But  they  'd  eaten  some  brandy 
cherries  that  I  threw  out,  and  they  were  just 
intoxicated.  And  I  felt  so  bad  when  they 
came  to  life,  with  their  chests  all  exposed, 
that  I  just  made  those  little  coats  and  tied 
them  on." 

Simon  Bushnell  looked  at  her,  and  then  he 
glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  flock  of 
erring  geese.  Then  he  began  to  laugh, — 
great  haw-haws  of  honest  laughter,  that 
convulsed  his  face  and  shook  his  frame. 

Miss  Esther  watched  him  silently ;  then  a 
lump  came  in  her  throat,  and  the  tears  rose 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  guess  you  would  n't  have  laughed,"  she 
said  indignantly,  "  if  those  geese  was  all  you 
had  for  your  Thanksgiving  party,  and  you 
thought  they  'd  gone  and  died  !  " 

He  stopped  laughing  quickly. 

"  Your  Thanksgiving  party?"  he  said  in- 
quiringly. 


IO4  ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  She  was  still  in- 
dignant, and  the  tears  in  her  eyes  were 
beginning  to  glisten  upon  her  cheeks. 

"They  was  all  I  had  to  buy  my  party 
fixin's  with.  I  've  asked  John,  and  his  wife 
and  children,  and  Uncle  Josiah  and  Aunt 
Ruth,  and  Ellen  Martin  to  dinner,  and  I 
calculated  to  get  about  fifteen  dollars  from 
these  geese  to  buy  things  with.  You  see  it 's 
my  last  Thanksgiving  here ;  I  'm  going  to  sell 
the  farm,  and  then  I  'm  going  away." 

Simon  Bushnell  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
"You're  going  away?"  he  finally  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  doggedly.  "  I 
am." 

He  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"  Esther,"  he  said  slowly,  "  have  you  felt 
real  bad  and  lonely  and  miserable  all  these 
years?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  honestly,  "  I  have." 

"  Well,  so  have  I,"  he  confessed.  "  I  Ve 
been  a  pig-headed  fool;  but  it  isn't  too  late. 
S'pose  you  keep  your  farm,  Esther,  and 
mine,  too.  S'pose  you  let  me  have  the  folks 
to  dinner,  and  let  it  be  my  Thanksgiving  party. 
S'pose  you  marry  me  now,  Esther?" 

She  was  silent,  crying  softly. 

"  Esther,"  he  said  gravely,  "  don't  take  on 


ESTHER   GODWIN'S  GEESE.  105 

so.  It's  now  or  never,  Esther,  for  sure  this 
time." 

"  Oh,  Simon,"  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hands,  "  let  it  be  now,  let  it  be  now !  " 

He  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  kissed  her 
awkwardly. 

"  I  just  bless  these  geese  of  yours,  Esther," 
he  said,  "  'cos  I  'd  vowed  I  'd  never  speak  to 
you  again,  no  matter  what  happened  ;  but  they 
kinder  surprised  me  into  it  'fore  I  thought." 

"  Poor  things  !  "  sobbed  forth  Miss  Esther, 
"  I  'd  kind  of  hate  to  kill  'em  now ! " 

But  she  did,  and  they  helped  to  furnish 
part  of  her  Thanksgiving  dinner  as  well  as 
her  wedding  feast. 


MARGARET'S    ROMANCE. 

TT  was  late  fall  in  Meshaunee,  and  the 
-*•  leaves  rustled  under  Margaret  Mclntyre's 
feet  as  she  walked  home.  A  young  man  of  fine 
and,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Meshauneeites,  distin- 
guished bearing  was  talking  earnestly  to  her. 
He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  that  air  which 
is  apt  to  be  called  in  country  places  "  citified." 

Meshaunee  is  a  small  town  in  the  northern 
peninsula  of  Michigan,  and  Margaret  Mcln- 
tyre  had  the  distinction  of  living  in  the  finest 
house  in  town.  This  was  not,  however,  an 
evidence  of  social  rank.  The  house  was  not 
her  own;  it  was  the  public-school  building, 
and  her  father  was  the  janitor.  He,  with 
Margaret  and  her  mother,  lived  in  the  base- 
ment, in  what  would  have  been  "  a  suite  of 
apartments  "  farther  east,  but  was  simply  "  a 
set  of  rooms  "  in  Meshaunee. 

It  had  never  seemed  at  all  strange  to  Mar- 
garet that  she  should  live  in  the  basement  of 
a  schoolhouse.  We  are  not  apt  in  youth  to 
be  astonished  at  our  environment.  Every- 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  IO/ 

thing  but  unhappiness  seems  natural  until  a 
healthy  person  is  at  least  twenty  years  old. 

John  Mclntyre  was  an  old  Scotchman,  who 
had  drifted  into  the  pine-woods  of  Michigan, 
he  could  scarcely  have  told  how.  He  had 
drifted  out  again,  however,  and  become  one 
of  the  first  settlers  in  Meshaunee.  He  had 
lived  there  ten  years,  and  was  regarded  as 
one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants. 

The  first  thing  the  early  settlers  had  done 
was  to  build  their  schoolhouse,  and  they  con- 
structed it,  as  thrifty  mothers  make  their 
children's  clothes,  —  "  to  grow  to."  It  looked 
very  handsome,  this  fall  afternoon,  as  Mar- 
garet approached.  The  setting  sun  was 
reflected  from  all  the  many  windows,  and 
the  grounds  were  pretty  and  well  kept. 

Margaret  paused  at  the  gate  as  if  to  finish 
her  conversation  before  going  in,  and,  turning 
to  the  young  man,  said,  — 

"  It  all  seems  so  very  sudden." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  the  question  is,  do  you  care  enough 
for  me  to  do  it  ?  " 

The  girl  leaned  against  the  tall  gatepost, 
and  looked  down  the  street.  She  did  not 
answer,  but  seemed  to  be  thinking,  and  the 
tears  glistened  in  her  eyes.  She  was  a  very 


108  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

beautiful  girl.  Beauty  makes  its  appearance 
in  some  women's  lives  like  an  island  on  the 
water.  The  current  sweeps  them  up  to  it, 
past  it,  and  beyond.  It  opens  upon  them  not 
like  a  flower  of  slow  growth,  but  suddenly, 
intensely,  and  then  fades  forever.  Margaret 
had  been  a  homely  child,  with  large  irregular 
features.  A  good  observer  might  see  that 
she  would  not  be  a  permanently  beautiful 
woman  ;  "  fine-looking,"  even  "  handsome,  " 
would,  perhaps,  however,  apply  for  some  years. 
But  now  she  was  abreast  of  her  beauty, 
as  it  were.  It  rested  upon  her  with  as  pal- 
pable a  glory  as  the  late  afternoon  sunshine 
in  which  she  stood. 

"  Margaret,"  said  the  young  man,  impa- 
tiently, "  you  do  not  answer." 

The  color  came  to  her  cheeks.  "  You 
know  I  think  more  of  you  than  of  any  one 
in  the  world,  unless  it  is  —  mother,"  and  she 
laughed  nervously. 

He  took  her  hands.  "  I  am  willing  to  have 
your  mother  for  a  rival,"  he  said  lightly,  and 
they  walked  toward  the  schoolhouse  together. 

The  room  they  entered  was  homelike  and 
cheery.  A  bright  fire  glowed  in  the  base- 
burner,  and  the  windows  were  full  of  plants. 
Margaret's  mother  lay  upon  the  sofa.  She 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  109 

was  a  gray-haired  woman,  whose  coarse  face 
had  been  softened  and  refined  by  years  of 
bodily  suffering.  Crippled  with  rheumatism, 
she  rarely  moved  from  her  couch  or  easy- 
chair.  Her  eyes  were  alert  and  eager,  and 
they  brightened  as  her  daughter  came  in. 
Margaret  went  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  Len  has  something 
he  wants  to  say  to  you;  "  and  then  she  left 
the  room,  and  the  old  woman  looked  at  the 
young  man  expectantly. 

He  brought  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"  I  guess  I  need  n't  tell  you,  Mrs.  Mclntyre," 
he  began,  "  that  it 's  about  Margaret.  I  want 
her  to  marry  me  now,  while  I  am  here. 
What's  the  use  of  waiting?  I  want  to  take 
her  back  to  New  York  with  me  when  I 

go-" 

"Well,  Len,"  said  the  old  woman,  kindly, 
"  that 's  as  Margaret  says." 

"  Oh,  Margaret  is  willing,  only  she  hates 
to  leave  you  and  her  father.  Of  course  you  '11 
miss  her,  but  all  girls  marry  and  leave 'their 
homes  sometime.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could 
wait  till  my  next  trip.  I  want  her  now.  I  'm 
going  to  give  her  a  splendid  home,  and  do 
everything  for  her,  and  I  guess  she  '11  find  life 


IIO  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

different  in  New  York  from  what  't  is  in  a 
little  hole  like  this." 

Mrs.  Mclntyre  did  not  resent  the  remark 
about  her  home.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with 
excitement. 

"  I  Ve  always  hoped,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
should  live  to  see  Margaret  well  married  and 
settled,  and  it  does  seem  real  splendid  that 
she  should  have  such  a  chance.  Still,  Len 
Crocker,"  she  added  impressively,  "  I  would  n't 
have  urged  her,  not  one  mite,  to  have  took 
you,  if  she  had  n't  a-wanted  to  herself." 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  Mr.  Mclntyre?"  asked 
the  young  man. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  'taint  hardly  worth  while  ; 
him  and  me '11  talk  it  over..  He's  sure  to 
agree  if  I  do..  I  Ve  had  the  running  of  Mar- 
garet always,  sick  in  bed  and  flat  on  my  back 
as  I  Ve  been  since  she  growed  up.  I  guess  if 
her  and  me  agree  on  a  man  we  like,  he  aint 
going  to  object  none ;  "  and  the  old  woman 
laughed  uproariously,  as  if  Mr.  Mclntyre's 
possible  disapproval  were  a  very  good  joke 
indeed. 

Leonard  Crocker  was  a  commercial  travel- 
ler. He  came  to  Michigan  as  the  agent  of  a 
large  firm  in  New  York,  and  sold  saws  and 
axes  and  other  woodmen's  tools.  He  had 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  ill 

been  unusually  successful,  and  was  valued  and 
paid  accordingly  by  his  employers.  This  was 
his  third  visit  to  Meshaunee,  and  each  time 
he  had  stayed  a  little  longer  and  been  a  little 
more  devoted  to  Margaret  Mclntyre. 

To  the  simple  Meshauneeites  he  had  always 
appeared  as  a  type  of  true  elegance,  with  his 
city  clothes  and  airs.  Especially  were  they 
awed  by  his  reckless  extravagance.  He 
stopped  at  the  best  hotel,  spent  money  freely 
for  liquor  and  cigars,  always  had  two  horses 
when  he  took  Margaret  to  drive,  and  quite 
boomed  business  at  the  one  small  florist's. 
Particularly  was  it  remarked  that  he  was  con- 
stantly hiring  people  to  do  him  little  services, 
run  errands,  etc.,  such  as  the  Meshauneeite 
had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  for 
himself.  His  boots  were  blacked,  and  he 
was  shaved  every  day ;  this  in  itself  was  an 
eccentricity. 

Mrs.  Mclntyre  was  right  in  her  prophecy 
about  her  husband ;  he  made  no  objection. 
Margaret's  marriage  took  place  that  fall,  and 
she  left  immediately  for  the  East  with  her 
handsome  husband. 

There  were  few  social  distinctions  in  Mesh- 
aunee, and  not  many  people  who  ever  thought 
about  them.  Still  there  was  a  widespread 


112  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

feeling  that  Margaret  had  married  above  her, 
and  had  done  uncommonly  well.  Mrs.  Mat- 
thews, the  wife  of  the  wealthiest  man  and  the 
largest  liquor-dealer  in  town,  was  quite  indig- 
nant over  it.  She  had  come  from  the  East, 
where  she  had  never  had  any  social  position ; 
but  she  had  always  insisted  upon  having  a 
great  deal  in  Meshaunee. 

Mrs.  Matthews  said  boldly,  that  she  re- 
garded Margaret  Mclntyre's  marriage  as  a 
great  piece  of  presumption,  and  she  was 
very  sorry  for  the  poor  young  man,  who  had 
been  entrapped  into  it.  She  further  remarked 
that  she  was  glad  her  son  Harry,  a  young 
fellow  of  twenty-five,  was  out  of  town  when  it 
happened,  —  such  things  were  so  demoralizing. 
She  was  much  disgusted  at  the  interest  he 
showed  in  it  on  his  return,  and  surprised  and 
indignant  when  she  found  he  had  gone  to 
see  old  Mrs.  Mclntyre,  to  ask  her  all  the 
particulars. 

But  the  truth  was  that  Harry  Matthews' 
interest  in  Margaret  dated  back  to  the  days 
when  they  had  gone  to  school  together.  He 
had  always  liked  her,  and  lately,  as  she  had 
seemed  more  beautiful  each  time  he  met  her, 
a  half-formed  wish  was  shaping  itself  in  his 
mind  that  their  school  friendship  might  ripen 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  113 

into  something  dearer  and  sweeter.  A  very 
tender  bud  of  romance  was  nipped  by  Mar- 
garet's marriage,  but  he  tried  to  be  a  true 
enough  friend  to  rejoice  heartily  in  her 
happiness. 

Letters  from  Margaret  soon  began  to  come 
to  her  old  home,  telling  of  her  new  life,  and 
of  all  the  strange,  delightful  things  that  were 
crowded  into  it.  She  was  keeping  house 
in  a  flat;  she  had  two  servants,  she  went 
often  to  the  theatre,  she  had  driven  to  the 
Park. 

To  the  lonely  old  woman  these  letters  came 
like  a  breath  of  heaven  itself.  The  brick 
walls  of  her  basement-rooms  stretched  away, 
and  she  roamed  through  the  greenest  pas- 
tures of  fancy.  Margaret,  her  Margaret,  her 
beautiful  only  child,  seemed  to  have  bitten 
into  the  rosy  side  of  life's  peach,  and  there 
was  no  bitter  flavor.  The  first  two  months 
after  Margaret  was  married  were  the  happi- 
est this  poor  sick  woman  had  ever  known. 
She  would  not  have  changed  places  with  a 
queen.  Then  a  great  blow  came,  for  old  John 
Mclntyre  died  suddenly,  and  she  was  left 
alone. 

Margaret  was  sent  for,  and  came  home  to 
her  father's  funeral.  She  was  much  shocked, 


114  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

but  very  quiet  and  composed.  She  attended 
.to  all  the  last  duties  herself,  paying  liberally 
for  everything;  and  poor  Mrs.  Mclntyre  was 
half  comforted  with  the  shiny  rosewood  cas- 
ket and  its  plated  trimmings,  and  the  long 
line  of  hired  carriages  that  were  supposed  to 
do  honor  to  her  husband's  memory.  Mar- 
garet herself  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
and  her  mother  noticed  with  strange  pleasure 
that  the  material  was  very  fine  and  the  crape 
of  the  best  quality.  It  was  more  "  elegant 
mourning  "  than  any  one  in  Meshaunee  had 
ever  worn,  and  Mrs.  Mclntyre  felt  a  thrill  of 
pride  in  the  midst  of  her  grief. 

Harry  Matthews  went  to  the  old  janitor's 
funeral,  and  afterward  came  to  see  Margaret. 
It  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  he  formed  his 
opinion,  but  he  went  away  with  the  conviction 
that  Margaret  was  not  a  happy  woman.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  little  influenced  by  his  own 
fondness  for  her.  There  is  a  sad  pleasure  in 
thinking  that  the  girl  who  marries  some  one 
else  is  not  altogether  happy.  "  At  all  events," 
Harry  thought  to  himself,  "  she  has  made  a 
good  match,  though  I  know  she  is  a  disap- 
pointed woman,  and  I  can  read  it  in  her 
eyes." 

However,  the  rest  of  Meshaunee  read  noth- 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  115 

ing  of  the  kind,  and  Margaret  was  regarded 
as  a  very  fortunate  girl.  She  was  anxious 
that  her  mother  should  return  to  New  York 
with  her,  but  the  old  woman  could  not  be 
persuaded. 

"  No,  Margaret,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  aint 
a-going  to  be  a  drag  on  you.  I  don't  think 
that  I  'd  a-come  to  you,  even  if  I  was  well  and 
spry.  I  aint  fit  to  go  live  in  New  York  with 
you,  and  seeing  I  am  as  I  am,  I  would  n't 
come  anyways." 

Margaret  kissed  her  thoughtfully.  "  Do 
you  think  you  'd  be  happier  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  her  mother ;  "  there  's  lots 
of  people  that  will  take  me  in,  and  be  glad  to. 
You  '11  write  to  me  real  often,  just  as  you 
have  done,  and  I  shall  be  thinking  about  you 
all  the  time,  —  how  fine  you  are,  how  grand 
you  live,  and  what  a  handsome  husband  you 
got,  and  all  the  rest." 

Margaret  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  it  would 
hurt  you  more  than  it  would  me  if  I  were 
to  be  poor  now." 

The  old  woman's  face  fell.  "  Margaret, 
you  aint —  Nothing's  happened  to  you, 
has  it?  "  she  asked  feverishly. 

"  No,"  said    Margaret,  quietly.     "  Leonard 


Il6  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

is  worth  just  as  much  as  when  I  married 
him.  Nothing  is  likely  to  happen  to  me 
now." 

She  was  silent  a  few  moments.  "  Per- 
haps," she  said,  "  you  would  be  happier  here 
for  the  present,  mother.  After  a  little  while 
we  can  change,  if  it  seems  best,  and  you  can 
come  to  me.  We  will  find  a  good  home  with 
some  one  of  the  old  neighbors,  where  you 
will  be  taken  care  of,  and  I  shall  come  and 
see  you  as  often  as  I  can." 

So  it  was  decided,  and, Margaret  left  in  a 
few  days  for  New  York.  She  sent  money 
regularly  every  week  for  her  mother's  board, 
and  wrote  her  weekly  long  letters,  in  which 
she  described  minutely  all  the  daily  happi- 
ness of  her  life. 

She  wrote  that  she  was  not  going  far  away 
for  the  summer,  but  should  spend  a  few 
weeks  at  some  of  the  sea-side  places  near 
New  York,  so  accessible  that  Leonard  could 
come  to  her  at  least  for  Sundays.  She  went 
to  Coney  Island,  and  to  a  little  place  on  Long 
Island,  and  she  never  failed  to  send  in  every 
Monday  morning,  by  Leonard,  a  thick  packet, 
to  be  mailed  in  the  city,  telling  her  mother 
of  all  she  had  seen  and  done. 

To  say  that  Mrs.  Mclntyre  enjoyed  these 


MARGARETS  ROMANCE.  117 

letters  but  faintly  expresses  it.  She  seemed 
actually  to  live  upon  them.  She  read  them 
hungrily  again  and  again.  If  they  were  late 
in  coming,  as  sometimes  happened,  she  was 
miserable,  lost  her  appetite,  and  could  not 
sleep. 

So  the  second  winter  after  Margaret's  mar- 
riage passed,  and  in  the  early  spring  a  great 
happiness  came  to  the  poor  old  woman,  for 
there  was  a  little  grandchild  to  hear  about  then, 
and  Margaret's  letters  were  more  welcome 
than  ever.  It  was  a  little  girl,  named  for  her 
mother,  Margaret  wrote.  After  a  few  months, 
she  sent  a  small  wisp  of  its  fine,  silky  hair, 
and  then  its  picture.  She  even  sent  samples 
of  its  fine  white  dresses,  and  their  delicate 
embroidered  trimming.  The  old  woman 
would  sit  for  hours  fingering  these  filmy 
little  pieces,  and  trying  to  realize  that  it  was 
her  child's  child  that  was  thus  clothed  and 
cared  for. 

Margaret  moved  soon  after  this  into  an- 
other house,  but  she  wrote  to  her  mother, 
describing  so  particularly  each  room  and 
every  object  in  it,  and  sending  samples  of 
everything  possible,  that  her  mother  dwelt 
far  more  in  Margaret's  house  than  in  the 
one  where  her  poor,  crippled  body  stayed. 


Il8  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

She  could  have  gone  through  Margaret's 
without  a  guide ;  she  knew  every  window 
and  closet  in  it.  She  knew  where  the  pre- 
serves were  kept,  and  where  the  baby's  crib 
stood,  and  the  position  of  every  object,  from 
the  stained-glass  panel  over  the  front  door 
to  the  roller  towel  in  the  kitchen. 

One  day,  about  two  years  and  a  half  after 
Margaret  had  left  Meshaunee,  Harry  Mat- 
thews came  to  see  Mrs.  Mclntyre. 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York,"  he  said,  "  and 
if  you  will  give  me  Margaret's  address,  I 
would  like  to  go  and  see  her." 

The  old  woman  fumbled  in  her  pocket 
and  brought  out  a  little  crumpled  piece  of 
paper.  She  handed  it  to  him.  "  The  first," 
she  said,  "  is.  her  house,  and  the  other  Len's 
store,  where  I  send  my  letters." 

He  copied  the  addresses,  Mrs.  Mclntyre 
watching  him  anxiously. 

"  Give  Margaret  my  love,"  she  said,  "  and 
kiss  the  baby  for  granny.  Tell  Margaret  her 
letters  just  keep  me  alive.  Here  I  sit  day 
after  day,  but  I  keep  living  right  along  with 
Margaret,  only  I  aint  no  drag  nor  trouble  to 
her.  Tell  her  I  'm  well  and  happy ;  tell 
her  that  last  box  was  just  splendid.  Why ! 
don't  you  want  a  banana?  Margaret  sent 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  1 19 

me  a  great  box  of  fruit  last  week ; "  and  she 
pointed  with  pride  to  a  plate  where  two 
bananas  reposed  side  by  side  on  top  of  a 
little  red  worsted  doyly. 

The  young  man  declined  the  proffered 
delicacy,  and  left,  promising  to  take  all  her 
messages  to  her  daughter. 

He  started  out  one  afternoon  soon  after  he 
arrived  in  New  York,  to  see  Margaret.  Her 
house  was  rather  far  uptown,  in  a  handsome, 
fashionable  street.  He  walked  along  it,  think- 
ing what  a  changed  life  hers  was  from  the 
days  when  she  had  lived  in  the  basement  of 
the  schoolhouse,  and  he  wondered  if  he 
should  find  Margaret  herself  as  changed  as 
her  surroundings. 

He  soon  found  the  number  he  had  written 
down.  He  rang  the  bell  and  waited.  A 
neat-looking  maid  came  to  the  door. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Crocker  in?"  he  asked. 

"Crocker,  sir?"  said  the  girl;  "  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams lives  here." 

"Why,  this  is  No.  114,  isn't  it?"  said  he, 
pulling  out  his  memorandum  book. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  but  no  Crocker 
lives  here,  nor  next  door  either." 

A  bright  thought  came  to  Harry:  "Has 
Mrs.  Williams  lived  here  long?"  he  asked. 


120  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  "  four  years  any  way, 
'cause  I  've  been  here  that  long." 

He  thanked  her  and  went  slowly  down  the 
steps.  It  was  very  strange,  and  he  could 
not  understand  it.  All  sorts  of  suspicions 
and  misgivings  flitted  through  his  brain. 
He  went  directly  to  the  other  address,  and 
found  it  to  be  a  wholesale  boot  and  shoe 
store. 

"  Is  there  any  person  of  the  name  of  Crocker 
connected  with  this  firm?"  he  asked  of  the 
nearest  clerk. 

'•'No,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  reply;  "no 
such  man." 

Completely  baffled,  Harry  Matthews  walked 
out.  Where  was  Margaret?  What  had  be-« 
come  of  her?  What  was  this  mystery,  and 
how  should  he  find  her?  She  was  alive,  she 
must  be  in  the  city.  Wild  thoughts  of  ad- 
vertising, or  of  putting  the  case  in  a  detec- 
tive's hands,  flashed  through  his  mind ;  but 
it  had  all  happened  so  suddenly,  and  he  was 
in  such  a  tumult,  that  he  could  not  think 
clearly. 

He  retraced  his  steps,  finding  that  in  his 
excitement  he  was  going  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion ;  but  his  car  overtook  him,  and  he  got  in. 

When  he  passed  the  shoe-store  he  looked 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  121 

out  at  it  as  if  it  could  in  some  way  help  him 
solve  this  puzzle.  A  woman  stood  on  the 
curb,  waiting  to  hail  the  car.  He  did  not 
notice  her  until  she  got  in  and  sat  down 
beside  him,  so  occupied  was  he  in  gazing  out 
of  the  window.  Then,  after  they  had  started, 
he  turned  for  a  second  ; .  he  could  not  believe 
his  own  senses. 

"  Margaret !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  Margaret 
Mclntyre,  is  this  you  !  " 

The  woman  shrank  away  from  him,  then 
looked  at  him  quietly  and  said :  "  I  do  not 
know  you,  sir." 

He  did  not  speak  again,  for  he  saw  that  a 
big  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  car,  who  had 
heard  his  question  and  Margaret's  answer, 
was  scowling  at  him  ominously,  but  he  looked 
at  her  with  astonishment  and  sorrow.  Her 
clothes  were  plain  and  well-worn.  Her  hair 
was  streaked  with  gray,  and  she  was  thin 
and  white.  Her  face  was  still  a  strong,  good 
face,  but  it  had  lost  every  trace  of  its  beauty. 
The  more  he  looked  at  her,  the  more  it 
seemed  to  him  wonderful  that  he  had  known 
her  at  all. 

He  got  out  soon  after  she  did,  and  quickly 
overtook  her. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  Margaret,  for  God's 


122  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

sake,  speak  to  me.  Tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you." 

"  I  shall  tell  you  nothing,"  she  said  sharply. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  hunt  me  down  like 
that." 

.  He  touched  her  arm  gently.  "Margaret, 
cannot  you  trust  me?  I  have  messages  for 
you  from  your  poor  old  mother.  Think  of 
her.  I  know  that  something  terrible  has 
happened  to  you.  Oh,  Margaret,  you  must 
tell  me.  I  will  keep  it  sacred." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  walked  rapidly  on. 
Presently  she  ran  up  the  steps  of  a  house, 
and  turning  around  on  the  top  step,  said 
shortly,  "  Come."  He  followed  her  in.  It 
was  by  sight  and  smell  unmistakably  a  board- 
ing-house. 

Margaret  went  into  the  front  parlor,  which 
had  the  usual  bare  look  of  a  boarding-house 
reception-room.  It  had  grown  quite  dark, 
and  two  gas-jets,  without  shades  or  globes, 
were  lighted,  but  had  been  frugally  turned 
down  to  a  mere  glimmer  of  light.  Margaret 
turned  one  of  them  up ;  then,  without  taking 
off  her  hat  or  wrap,  she  faced  him. 

"What  is  it  you  want?  "  she  asked  wearily. 
All  the  anger  and  defiance  seemed  to  have 
faded  from  her  voice. 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  123 

It  struck  the  young  man  with  a  sense  of 
shame  that  he  should  have  persisted  so  in 
finding  her. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said  timidly,  "  perhaps  it 
was  wrong  to  follow  you  and  question  you. 
I  will  go  away  if  you  want  me  to,  and  never 
tell  a  living  soul  that  I  have  seen  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  sadly,  "  it  had  got  to 
come.  I  knew  it;  I  have  been  expecting  it 
for  months.  It  is  better  you  than  any  one 
else."  She  waited  a  minute,  and  then  said 
quietly,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  wonder  where  my  husband 
is.  Well,  I  have  n't  any,  —  I  have  never  had 
one." 

"  Margaret,"  he  cried —  "  why,  Margaret !  " 

She  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  as  if 
looking  out  for  a  few  minutes.  But  she  did 
not  see  anything;  she  was  struggling  with  all 
her  might  to  control  herself.  Presently  she 
turned. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  tell  you 
all.  Do  not  question  me,  do  not  speak  ; 
do  not  even  look  at  me  till  I  am  through." 

She  pulled  at  her  bonnet-strings  and  tore 
open  her  wrap,  as  if  they  choked  her.  Her 
voice  was  steady,  but  low  and  hoarse. 

"  You  know  about  my  marriage,"  she  said, 


124  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

"  and  what  a  splendid  match  they  thought  I 
made !  Well,  he  came  here,  and  for  over 
two  months  everything  went  well.  Then  I 
found  out  —  no  matter  how  —  that  he  had 
been  married  before,  that  his  wife  was  living, 
that  I  had  never  been  his  wife.  I  left  him 
that  night.  He  tried  to  keep  me ;  he  begged 
and  implored ;  he  promised  everything.  I 
think  he  loved  me  as  much  as  such  a  man 
can  love.  She  had  not  been  a  good  woman ; 
she  had  left  him ;  he  never  expected  to  see 
her  again.  I  do  not  think  he  meant  to  do 
this  terrible  thing  to  me.  But  it  was  of  no 
use  for  him  to  talk.  I  was  mad  —  beside 
myself — a  wild,  crazy  woman.  I  slept  in  the 
station-house  that  night.  Then  I  got  a  little 
work  to  do ;  I  hardly  know  how  I  got  it,  or 
what  it  was,  it  all  seems  such  a  long,  long 
time  ago.  You  wonder  that  I  did  not  come 
home.  I  cottld  not  then.  I  thought  I  would, 
after  the  first  horror  of  it  was  past. 

"  I  had  written  to  mother  only  a  few  days 
before,  and  I  knew  she  would  not  be  worried 
about  me  for  a  week  at  least,  and  I  tried  to 
get  a  little  calmer  and  to  fix  in  my  mind  how 
I  had  better  tell  her.  And  then  came  the 
telegram  that  father  was  dead. 

"  He  brought  it  to  me ;  he  came  to  me  and 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  125 

tried  to  get  me  to  forgive  him.  He  offered 
everything,  and  I  took  his  money  then.  I 
said,  '  I  will  take  it,  and  go  and  bury  the  old 
man,  that  you  have  wronged  more  than  any 
man  on  earth;  but  you  shall  have  it  again, 
every  cent  of  it.'  I  sold  all  my  clothes  and 
all  my  wedding  presents.  I  hired  my  mourn- 
ing—  one  can  do  that  in  New  York — and 
so  I  went  home  and  buried  my  father,  and 
kept  my  ghastly  secret. 

"  Why  did  I  do  it?  Partly  it  was  the  ter- 
rible pride  of  an  injured  woman,  and  partly 
for  my  poor  old  mother's  sake.  '  I  will  tell 
her  when  she  is  better  able  to  bear  it,'  I 
thought,  '  and  not  now,  when  she  has  turned 
to  me  for  all  her  strength  and  comfort.'  And 
then  I  came  back.  I  did  not  care  if  I  lived 
or  died ;  and  so  I  lived.  I  did  not  care 
whether  I  succeeded  or  starved  to  death ; 
and  so  I  succeeded.  That  is  always  the  way 
with  Fate :  it  denies  life  and  success  to  those 
who  crave  them,  and  then  gives  them  to 
those,  like  me,  who  do  not  care.  I  got  a 
good  place.  I  lived,  myself,  on  next  to  noth- 
ing, and  sent  everything  to  mother.  I  wrote 
to  her,  too,  and  made  her  believe  that  every- 
thing in  my  life  was  just  as  she  wanted  it  to 
be.  I  only  meant  to  deceive  her  until  she 


126  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

had  rallied  a  little  from  father's  death,  and 
then,  if  I  still  got  on  well,  I  meant  to  tell  her 
all,  and  have  her  come  and  live  with  me. 
But  more  and  more  I  saw  how  she  was  liv- 
ing in  my  life,  how  it  would  kill  her  if  she 
ever  knew  the  truth.  So  I  resolved  that  just 
as  long  as  I  could  I  would  keep  her  ignorant. 
Perhaps  it  is  easy  to  believe  in  what  you 
most  desire;  at  all  events,  she  has  never 
suspected  or  doubted  for  a  moment." 

She  was  silent  for  a  second,  then  she  said : 
"  I  began  it  all  for  mother's  sake,  but  now  — 
can  you  see?  do  you  understand? — /  be- 
lieve in  it,  too.  It  is  more  real  a  thousand 
times  to  me  than  the  daily  life  I  lead.  Some- 
times I  feel  as  if  I,  the  real  Margaret  Mcln- 
tyre,  died  .that  night,  when  I  found  out  and 
left  him ;  and  it  has  all  been  a  dream  ever 
since.  Mother  and  I  were  living  in  a  beau- 
tiful world  of  our  own.  You  ought  not  to 
have  come  and  disturbed  us." 

She  looked  at  him  strangely,  and  her  eyes 
had  the  peculiar  look  of  a  sleep-walker.  He 
watched  her  anxiously. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  what 
can  I  do,  what  can  I  say !  Do  you  live  here, 
Margaret?" 

"Here?     Oh,  no."     She  looked   up  in  a 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  I2/ 

startled   way.     "What  was   I    saying?     Yes, 
I  have  lived  here  of  late." 

"  And  your—  "  he  began  slowly. 
"  My  child?  "  she  said.  "  I  have  no  child. 
I  never  had  one.  I  bought  the  pictures  that 
I  sent  to  mother.  Ah,  my  God ! "  she  said 
with  a  sob,  "  you  have  robbed  me  of  every- 
thing. You  make  me  say  I  have  no  home 
—  no  child  —  nothing;  and  I  was  so  happy 
with  them.  My  little  girl  was  so  pretty ! " 

Again  she  looked  at  him,  with  the  confused 
look  of  one  who  had  taken  ether,  and  who 
suddenly  returns  to  consciousness.  Then 
she  seemed  to  control  herself.  "  I  have  in- 
vented it  all,"  she  cried.  "  My  house,  oh, 
how  I  have  loved  that  house !  I  picked  out 
everything  myself,  —  every  carpet,  every 
piece  of  wall-paper,  every  bit  of  furniture. 
You  will  not  take  it  from  me  ? "  she  asked 
pleadingly. 

"  Dear  Margaret,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  will 
not  take  anything  away  from  you.  Will  you 
come  home  with  me  to  your  mother  now?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  I  cannot."  She  put  up  both 
hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"But,  Margaret,  sometime  you  will  have  to 
tell  her.  You  cannot  live  this -way  .much 
longer.  It  will  not  hurt  her  as  you  think, 


128  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

she  will  be  so  glad  to  have  you  with  her 
again." 

The  girl  shuddered :  "  No,  no,"  she  cried, 
"  I  shall  never  tell  her !  Sometime,  if  she 
has  to  know,  if  I  cannot  keep  it  from  her, 
I  may,  but  not  now.  It  would  kill  her,  it 
would  kill  me." 

He  talked  with  her  a  long  time.  His  heart 
was  full  of  compassion.  It  was  terrible  to 
see  her  and  to  know  how  she  had  suffered. 
She  was  the  mere  ghost  of  what  she  had 
been.  Her  very  eyes  were  changed.  He 
thought  he  saw  in  them  the  flickering  light 
of  insanity.  She  told  him  how  she  had 
worked  and  risen ;  she  was  now  a  book- 
keeper with  a  good  salary.  She  never  saw 
the  man  whom  she  had  married ;  she  had 
paid  him  back  the  sum  that  she  had  taken 
for  her  father's  funeral,  and  made  him  take 
beside  every  cent  of  money  that  he  had 
ever  spent  on  her. 

He  could  not  change  her  fixed  purpose  to 
remain  where  she  was,  and  he  gave  her  his 
word  of  honor  not  to  betray  her  secret.  He 
left  her  sadly,  and  reassured  himself  with  the 
thought  that  now  he  should  make  it  his  busi- 
ness to  see  her  often,  and  to  keep  track  of 
her. 


MARGARETS  ROMANCE.  I2Q 

When  he  returned  to  Meshaunee,  he 
found  he  had  a  very  uncomfortable  dread 
about  old  Mrs.  Mclntyre.  He  did  not  dare 
to  see  her,  although  he  knew  that  she 
expected  him  ;  but  one  day  he  rode  by,  and 
she  saw  him  from  the  window  and  sent  a 
little  girl  out,  who  ran  after  him,  calling. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Old  Mrs.  Mclntyre  wants  to  see  you  the 
worst  way,"  said  the  girl ;  "  she 's  sick,  and 
she  's  been  asking  for  you  every  day." 

He  dismounted  slowly  and  went  in. 

The  poor  old  woman  was  evidently  quite 
ill.  She  looked  very  feeble,  but  her  eyes 
brightened  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Matthews,"  she  said,  "  and  did 
you  see  my  Margaret?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  she  sent  her 
love  to  you." 

"  And  Annie,  the  little  girl,  my  grandchild, 
did  you  see  her  too?  " 

He  felt  at  his  wit's  end.  "  No,"  he  managed 
to  say,  "  I  did  n't  see  the  little  girl.  She  was 
out,  I  think." 

"  Out  with  her  nurse,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
old  woman,  with  an  air  of  importance ;   "  Mar- 
garet has  her  take  an  airing  every  day.     And 
how  was  Margaret  looking  herself  ?  " 
9 


130  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

"  I  did  n't  think  she  looked  very  well ;  but, 
then,  Mrs.  Mclntyre,  it  is  some  time  since  I 
have  seen  her." 

The  sick  woman  did  not  become  anxious. 
She  smiled  contentedly.  "  I  heard  from  her 
day  before  yesterday,"  she  said,  "  and  to-day- 
is  little  Annie's  birthday.  She  's  going  to 
have  a  party,  a  real  elegant  one.  Margaret 
had  been  getting  the  things  when  she  wrote. 
She's  going  to  have  a  ring  in  a  cake,  and 
every  little  child  's  going  to  have  one  of  them" 
She  pointed  to  a  German  motto  on  the  table 
beside  her. 

"  Margaret  said  if  I  'd  pull  it  something 
would  crack,  and  there  'd  be  a  cap  or  an  apron, 
or  some  such  thing  in  it,  all  made  of  paper. 
I  don't  see'how  there's  room  in  just  that  little 
wad.  But  I  thought  I  would  n't  break  it,  it 
looks  so  sort  of  pretty  just  as  it  is." 

She  spoke  in  a  quick,  feverish  way,  and  the 
young  man  noticed  that  her  hand  trembled, 
and  that  in  spite  of  her  eagerness  she  seemed 
very  weak. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  for  Margaret?"  he 
said;  "you  need  her,  Mrs.  Mclntyre." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  old  woman,  shaking  her 
head ;  "  Margaret 's  got  her  hands  full  with- 
out me.  There's  little  Annie  and  her  big 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  131 

house  to  'tend  to ;  and  now  summer 's  coming 
on,  and  she 's  got  all  her  winter  things  to  put 
away  from  the  moths,  and  I  suppose  she  '11  be 
going  to  some  watering-place  or  another.  Oh, 
no,  she  must  n't  come  to  me.  I  '11  be  well  in  a 
day  or  two.  It 's  done  me  a  lot  of  good  to 
see  you." 

The  woman  who  owned  the  house  slipped 
into  the  hall  as  Matthews  was  going  out. 

"  Poor  Mis'  Mclntyre  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  guess 
she  aint  a-going  to  get  over  this  attack." 

"  Why,  she  seemed  very  bright  to  me,"  he 
answered. 

"  Well,  I  guess  she  must  have  talked  about 
Margaret,  then.  She  '11  lay  for  hours  without 
speaking  or  taking  notice  ;  but  if  you  just  say 
'  Margaret '  to  her  once,  it  seems  to  sort  of 
start  her  up  all  over.  I  think  Margaret 
ought  to  be  sent  for,  but  Mis'  Mclntyre,  she 
won't  hear  to  it." 

Harry  Matthews  rode  directly  to  the  tele- 
graph office.  It  seemed  to  him  right  that 
Margaret  should  know. 

"  Your  mother  is  very  sick,"  he  telegraphed ; 
"  she  does  n't  know  that  I  have  sent,  but  you 
had  better  come." 

He  felt  sure  that  Margaret  would  come. 
Nor  was  he  mistaken.  Few  people  had  a 


132  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

chance  to  comment  on  her  changed  looks, 
for  she  went  straight  to  her  mother's  bedside, 
and  stayed  there. 

"  Margaret,  O  Margaret,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "  you  ought  not  to  have  come.  Did 
you  bring  little  Annie?" 

"  No,  mother  dear,"  she  answered ;  "  she  is 
safe  and  well  where  she  is,  and  I  thought  she 
might  disturb  you.  But  I  have  a  new  picture 
of  her,  and  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  all  about  her. 
She  's  beginning  to  walk  now."  And  then  she 
talked  to  her  mother  by  the  hour  of  her  child, 
her  home,  and  husband ;  and  the  dying  woman 
listened,  with  a  rapt  expression  on  her  face. 
No  angelic  chorus  would  be  sweeter  to  her 
ears  than  these  tales  that  Margaret  told. 

Harry  Matthews  came  nearly  every  day, 
and  always  went  away  amazed  that  Margaret 
could  act  her  part  so  well.  She  never 
betrayed,  even  to  him,  by  look  or  sign,  how 
false  it  all  was.  He  could  not  realize  that  it 
had  become  easy  and  natural  to  Margaret  to 
believe  it  all  herself. 

When  Mrs.  Mclntyre  died,  Margaret's  hand 
was  in  hers. 

"  Margaret,"  she  said,  "  I  hate  to  leave  you, 
but  I  am  a-thinking  perhaps  that  I  shall  be 
with  you  more  than  ever.  Perhaps  the  Lord 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  133 

will  let  me  come  to  your  house,  Margaret, 
after  I  die.  I  should  n't  be  no  trouble  then, 
and  I  should  love  to  see  you  so,  —  and  little 
Annie  !  If  I  could  just  touch  her  once,  and 
see  her  all  dressed  up  in  them  pretty  things, 
it 's  about  all  the  heaven  I  want." 

Margaret  shivered,  but  her  voice  was  steady 
when  she  answered,  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  near  us  always,  mother 
dear." 

The  flame  of  life  flickered  up  brightly  in 
the  dying  eyes. 

"  You  mean  it,  don't  you,  Margaret?  You 
would  n't  be  afraid  of  me,  if  I  was  a  ghost? 
Well,  then,  if  the  Lord  will  let  me,  I  '11  come 
and  stay  a  while  with  you",  Margaret,  before 
I  go  to  see  those  '  heavenly  mansions.'  Some- 
how, your  house  would  seem  more  like  home." 

She  spoke  only  once  more,  and  then  to 
say,  "  God  bless  little  Annie  !  " 

Margaret  fell  down  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  and  buried  her  face.  She  did  not 
cry  ;  but  there  was  a  wild,  terrified  look  in  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  were  pursued  by  something 
horrible. 

She  did  not  see  Harry  Matthews  the  first 
time  he  called  after  her  mother's  funeral ;  and 
when  he  came  again,  the  woman  who  owned 


134  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

the  house  told  him  that  she  had  gone  back 
to  New  York. 

"  She  said  she  could  n't  stay  away  any 
longer  from  her  little  girl.  She 's  awful 
changed,  aint  she?  She  used  to  be  so  good- 
looking.  Well,  I  suppose  a  body  can't  have 
everything,  and  she 's  got  money  enough  to 
do  without  good  looks.  She  paid  up  every 
little  thing,  and  then  she  gave  me  five  dollars, 
just  because  I  'd  been  good  to  her  mother. 
I  told  her  I  had  n't  done  anything  to  earn 
it,  but  she  just  made  me  take  it." 

Harry  Matthews  was  terribly  disappointed 
not  to  see  Margaret  again.  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  have  her  leave  him  like  this  and 
drop  back  into  her  old  hard  life.  He  must 
see  her  arid  have  a  little  talk  with  her,  even 
if  he  should  have  no  influence  over  her;  and 
so  he  followed  her  to  New  York. 

She  met  him  quietly  and  without  surprise, 
and  they  talked  at  first  of  her  mother. 

"  You  made  her  very  happy,  both  in  her 
life  and  death,  Margaret,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  so  glad  I  never  told  her,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "  I  used  to  think  that  something  might 
happen,  so  that  she  need  never  know ;  but  it 
was  not  this  I  thought  of,  —  not  her  dying.  I 
used  to  think  it  would  all  be  true  sometime, 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  135 

and  then  she  need  never  know  there  was  a 
time  when  it  was  false." 

He  looked  at  her  questioningly.  Did  she 
mean  that  she  might  marry  again  ;  or  could  it 
be  that  her  belief  in  her  own  creations  was  so 
strong  she  fancied  they  might  become  facts? 

She  did  not  speak,  but  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing intently.  After  a  while  she  said,  — 

"  I  shall  not  put  any  mourning  on  Annie ; 
she  is  too  young." 

He  looked  up  surprised  that  she  should 
make  such  a  jest;  but  Margaret's  face  was 
quite  serious,  and  then  he  knew  that  the  fic- 
tion she  had  woven  so  long  and  patiently  for 
her  mother  had  indeed  become  to  her  the 
true  life,  and  the  actual  one  was  now  the 
dream. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke  to  her 
loudly,  as  we  rouse  a  person  from  sleep, — 
"  Margaret,  what  are  you  talking  about?  What 
are  you  going  to  do?  Are  you  going  to  stay 
here,  or  will  you  come  home?  " 

"Home?" 

"  Yes,  Margaret,  to  my  home.  I  loved  you 
before,  —  oh,  long  ago.  I  have  loved  you 
always,  I  think ;  and  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will 
try  to  make  you  so  happy,  that  you  can  for- 
get all  the  misery  you  have  passed  through." 


136  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  moaned,  and  rocked 
to  and  fro.  "  How  dare  you  !  how  dare 
you!  how  can  you!  Ah,  I  must  not  talk 
like  that !  You  are  good  and  true,  —  I  think 
you  are  the  only  good  man  in  the  world ;  but 
you  hurt  me  so,  you  hurt  me  so  !  " 

"  Listen,  Margaret,"  he  said  gently,  "  and 
try  to  follow  what  I  say.  I  hurt  you,  because 
you  have  dreamed  that  which  would  make 
the  offer  of  my  love  an  insult,  if  it  were  true. 
But  you  must  not  live  in  these  dreams  any 
longer.  They  are  false,  they  do  not  exist. 
Try  to  put  them  out  of  your  mind.  You  are 
Margaret  Mclntyre.  You  have  no  other 
home  but  this  boarding-house.  I  love  you 
truly  and  honestly.  To  me  you  are  just  as 
dear  and  pure  as  the  Margaret  that  I  loved 
when  we  went  to  school  together.  I  want 
you  to  marry  me,  and  to  let  me  make  you 
happy.  You  will  get  rested,  and  strong  and 
well,  after  a  little  ;  you  will  forget  all  these 
fancies  and  delusions.  We  will  not  live  in, 
Meshaunee ;  we  will  go  wherever  you  choose. 
Try  to  think  of  it." 

She  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  137 

"And  do  you  think  I  would  do  it?"  she 
asked  between  her  sobs.  "  Do  you  think  I 
would  join  my  ruined,  wrecked  life  to  yours? 
You  tell  me  to  look  at  things  as  they  are.  I 
do,  and  I  see  myself,  a  wretched  outcast,  who 
would  never  marry  you,  never!  Do  you  not 
see?  —  if  I  must  look  at  life  as  it  is,  at  myself 
as  I  am,  I  shall  die  —  no,  I  do  not  mean  that 
I  Jiave  died,  I  am  dead  !  Oh,  why  do  they 
not  bury  me !  "  and  she  sobbed  wildly. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  began  to  see  that 
her  dream-world,  which  had  seemed  to  him  a 
slight  form  of  insanity,  had  in  reality  saved 
her  life.  She  had  been  happier  in  her  ima- 
ginary surroundings  than  he  could  ever  make 
her.' 

"  Dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  let  it  all  pass. 
Forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  you.  You  will  let 
me  be  your  friend  and  help  you  all  I  can,  and 
you  shall  live  just  as  you  choose." 

She  was  still  crying  bitterly,  though  she 
grew  quieter  before  he  left  her ;  but  her  face 
haunted  him.  He  thought  of  her  all  night, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  could  still  hear 
her  sobbing.  He  dreaded  to  meet  her  the 
next  day.  In  the  morning  he  walked  slowly 
to  the  house,  arid  was  shown  into  the  parlor  by 
the  girl,  who  left  him  without  a  word.  Soon 


138  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

a  stout,  middle-aged  woman  entered,  whom  he 
knew  instinctively  to  be  the  landlady. 

"  This  is  very  sad,'"  she  said.  "  I  believe 
you  were  a  friend  of  Miss  Mclntyre." 

He  felt  his  heart  turn  to  ice  within  him. 

"  What  has  happened?  "  he  faltered. 

"  You  do  not  know  ?  Miss  Mclntyre  died 
last  night.  She  did  not  come  down  to  break- 
fast, and  we  could  not  make  her  answer;  so 
we  broke  open  the  door,  and  there  she  lay,  — 
just  as  natural.  But  we  could  not  rouse  her, 
so  we  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  he  said  she  had 
been  dead  some  hours.  He  thinks  it  was 
heart  disease.  She  said  last  night  she  had  a 
headache,  and  I  know  she  had  some  kind  of 
pills  she  took  for  headache,  and  maybe  she 
took  too  much;  I  can't  tell.  She  seemed 
well  last  night,  all  but  her  head.  She  was 
such  a  nice  lady,  too !  She'd  been  here  over 
a  year  now,  and  she  never  made  any  trouble. 
She  had  n't  had  any  bad  news,  had  she?  "  she 
asked  him  curiously;  and  he  saw  that  the 
same  dark  suspicion  had  risen  in  her  mind  as 
in  his. 

He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  prompted 
by  loyalty  to  Margaret,  answered,  — 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of;  it  is 
impossible.  I  have  known  her  always,  and  I 


MARGARET'S  ROMANCE.  .139 

will  tell  you  that  only  yesterday  I  asked  her 
to  be  my  wife.  I  came  to  see  her  to-day,  and 
she  is  dead." 

The  woman's  face  instantly  assumed  an 
expression  of  the  liveliest  interest. 

"  She  was  engaged  to  you  then  ?  Ah,  well ! 
she  never  took  her  own  life  the  day  after  that, 
that's  certain." 

A  letter  came  to  the  young  man  that  day, 
written  and  mailed  to  him  by  Margaret  the 
night  before.  It  began,  — 

DEAR  HARRY,  —  I  cannot  find  my  beautiful 
world.  My  home,  my  child,  and  everything  are 
gone.  They  grew  dim  after  mother  died,  and 
to-day,  when  you  told  me  I  must  look  at  things  as 
they  are,  they  vanished  altogether,  and  I  cannot 
find  them. 

I  have  tried  in  vain  to  dream  again,  but  I  hear 
your  voice  saying,  "  It  is  not  true  ;  you  are  Margaret 
Mclntyre."  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  Margaret  Mc- 
Intyre  died  one  horrible  night  over  two  years  ago, 
and  that  only  a  dream  has  lived  since  ?  The  dream 
is  dead  now,  too,  and  I  think  God  is  going  to  give 
rest  to  the  poor  body  that  held  first  a  soul,  and  then 
a  lovely  vision. 

You  have  been  good  and  true,  and  I  thank  you. 
Good-night. 

MARGARET. 


I4O  MARGARET'S  ROMANCE. 

He  read  it  over  and  over.  Were  they  the 
words  of  one  whose  reason  totters  beneath 
the  burdens  it  has  had  to  bear;  or  were  they 
written  by  a  woman  with  her  hand  upon  the 
door  of  death,  which  she  herself  intends  to 
open ;  or  had  Margaret  died  because  her 
dreams  had  grown  to  be  so  much  the  truest, 
largest  part  of  her,  that  when  they  ended 
there  was  nothing  left  to  live  with? 

He  could  not  answer,  and  he  never  knew. 


A   VICTIM    OF    PREJUDICE. 

THE  town-clock  struck  six  as  Augusta 
Miller  hurried  home.  It  was  already 
dark,  for  it  was  winter,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
snow.  She  opened  the  big  front  door,  with 
its  heavy  brass  knocker,  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, and  ran  up  stairs  to  take  off  her  wraps. 
She  was  rosy  and  out  of  breath  when  she 
came  down  ;  but  in  spite  of  all  her  haste,  she 
had  a  guilty  consciousness  that  she  was  late. 

Her  mother  did  not  look  up,  as  she  would 
have  done  ii  her  daughter  had  been  on  time. 
She  took  no  notice  of  her  whatever,  and  the 
girl  went  to  the  grate  and  began  to  warm 
her  hands. 

There  is  always  something  irritating  in  the 
sight  of  a  delinquent  person  making  himself 
comfortable.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Miller  rather 
presuming  in  Augusta  to  warm  herself  when 
she  was  so  late.  "  Go  and  tell  Lottie  we  are 
ready  for  tea,"  she  said  sternly. 

Augusta  meekly  obeyed.  She  was  a  tall, 
slim  girl  of  about  twenty-five,  though  she 


142  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

looked  much  younger.  She  had  pale  yellow 
hair  and  light  blue  eyes,  and  her  complexion 
was  a  very  delicate  pink  and  white.  She 
wore  her  hair  straight  back  from  her  low 
forehead,  and  there  was  something  very 
sweet  and  refined  about  her  face.  She  was 
pretty,  but  it  was  in  a  faint,  unsatisfactory 
way.  With  such  good  material,  she  ought 
to  have  been  much  prettier.  She  was  the 
youngest  of  eight  children,  and  the  only  one 
left  at  home,  in  the  large,  old-fashioned  house 
with  her  mother.  She  was  a  timid,  sensitive 
girl,  who  had  always  remained  undeveloped. 

Some  women  are  like  seckel  pears,  —  it 
takes  a  good,  sharp  frost  to  ripen  them  and 
bring  out  all  their  latent  sweetness  and  rich 
coloring ;  others  develop  slowly  under  trouble 
and  care,  as  the  Duchess  pear  ripens  in  a 
dark  closet.  Then  there  are  yet  other  women 
who  need  a  great  deal  of  warmth  and  sun- 
shine to  ripen  and  perfect  them,  as  a  peach 
clings  to  the  bough  and  seems  to  drink  in 
the  essence  of  the  whole  summer. 

Augusta  Miller  was  of  this  last  class.  Much 
love  and  tenderness  would  have  made  of  her 
a  character  as  sweet  as  it  was  sensitive,  as 
loving  as  it  was  pure.  But  love  and  tender- 
ness she  never  had.  Her  mother's  strong, 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  143 

dominating  will  had  held  her  in  complete 
subjugation.  It  had  overshadowed  and 
absorbed  her,  and  at  twenty-five  she  was  as 
flavorless  and  undeveloped  as  immature  fruit. 

Mrs.  Miller  was  a  very  dignified  and  impos- 
ing old  lady.  She  had  massive  gray  hair, 
and  wore  massive  white  caps  on  top  of  it 
She  was  always  dressed  in  black  silk,  which 
never  looked  as  if  it  had  been  turned  or 
made  over.  She  was  a  born  autocrat  in  her 
family,  her  household,  and  the  community  at 
large.  If  she  had  been  cast  away  on  a  can- 
nibal island,  she  would  have  been  much  more 
likely  to  rule  the  natives  than  to  have  been 
eaten  by  them.  On  this  particular  evening 
she  sat  down  opposite  her  daughter  at  the 
uncovered,  polished  table,  and  began  to  pour 
tea  with  an  offended  and  injured  air. 

"  I  walked  as  far  as  Mrs.  Kaufmann's,"  said 
Augusta,  cheerfully,  "  and  that  big,  white 
rose  of  hers  is  all  in  bloom.  I  told  her  you 
would  want  some  flowers  before  long,  but 
would  come  and  order  them  yourself."  She 
looked  anxiously  at  her  mother  for  some 
sign  of  interest  or  approval,  but  it  did  not 
come.  Mrs.  Miller's  eyelids  quivered  a  very 
little,  but  she  did  not  raise  them  or  give  the 
least  sign  that  she  had  heard. 


144  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

"  Pass  the  butter,"  she  said  to  the  neat 
little  maid,  who  was  standing  behind  her,  in 
a  very  large  white  apron  and  holding  an 
unnecessarily  big  silver  tray. 

Augusta  sighed.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  had  spent  most  of  her  life  batting  her 
head  against  the  stone  wall  of  her  mother's 
disapproval.  She  tasted  her  tea  and  found 
there  was  no  sugar  in  it.  She  half  suspected 
her  mother  had  forgotten  it  on  purpose,  and 
was  immediately  ashamed  of  the  suspicion. 
Still  she  did  not  deem  it  quite  safe  to  ask 
for  any  yet;  so  she  let  her  cup  stand,  and 
began  the  attack  again. 

"  Stone  and  Storm  have  moved  into  their 
new  store.  They  had  an  opening  to-day. 
I  stopped  and  looked  in  as  I  came  by,  and 
really  it  looked  very  pretty." 

Mrs.  Miller  made  a  sound  that  in  a  less 
elegant  person  would  have  been  a  grunt. 
She  had  just  read  all  about  Stone  and  Storm's 
opening  in  the  small  daily  newspaper,  and 
she  felt  that  she  was  being  offered  stale 
news. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  which  was  broken 
by  Augusta's  saying,  "  Richard  Emmet  is 
home."  She  had  not  meant  to  say  this,  for 
it  had  not  seemed  to  her  a  propitiatory 


A    VICTIM   OF  PREJUDICE.  145 

remark,  but  Mrs.  Miller  deigned  to  notice 
it. 

"  What  for?  "  she  asked  shortly. 

Now  Augusta  did  not  really  know  ;  but  as 
this  had  been  the  first  subject  that  roused 
any  interest,  she  felt  that  she  had  better  not 
abandon  it. 

"  Why,  to  see  his  mother,  I  suppose,"  she 
answered. 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,  he  has  come 
back  to  marry  that  Ryan  girl,"  said  Mrs. 
Miller,  with  derision.  "  He  always  was  atten- 
tive to  her,  and  she  has  looked  wonderfully 
important  all  winter." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Augusta,  doubtfully; 
then,  emboldened  by  her  mother's  long  sen- 
tence, she  sent  back  her  cup  and  said,  — 

"Will  you  give  me  a  little  more  sugar, 
please?" 

Mrs.  Miller  looked  at  her  in  an  aggrieved 
way,  and  picked  up  a  lump  with  a  vicious 
snip  of  the  tongs. 

"  He  has  grown  so  nice  looking,  and  was  so 
well  dressed,"  said  Augusta,  with  injudicious 
haste,  regretting  that  she  had  not  gone  sugar- 
less a  little  longer. 

"Why,  where  did  you  see  him?"  asked 
Mrs.  Miller,  in  cold  surprise. 

10 


146  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

"  I  met  him  to-day  when  I  was  out." 

"And  do  you  know  him?" 

Augusta  answered  patiently,  "  Of  course  I 
know  him.  When  he  is  home  he  is  asked 
everywhere.  I  met  him  at  the  Tremaines 
last  winter." 

"  /  don't  know  him,"  said  Mrs.  Miller, 
complacently.  "  His  mother  made  all  my 
carpets  when  I  went  to  housekeeping.  She 
sewed  carpets  beautifully,  and  only  charged 
three  shillings  a  day.  I  remember  your 
father  said  it  was  too  little,  and  he  paid  her 
five,  and  I  guess  after  that  she  always  asked 
five." 

Augusta  had  heard  of  those  carpets  many 
times.  They  had  metaphorically  been  flung 
at  Richard  Emmet's  head  often  before.  She 
was  sorry  that  the  only  subject  which  had 
awakened  any  interest  in  her  mother,  seemed 
to  be  such  an  unfortunate  one. 

"  I  would  like  another  piece  of  toast,"  she 
ventured  to  say. 

"  It  is  as  cold  as  a  stone,"  said  Mrs.  Miller, 
severely;  and  Augusta  took  two  pieces,  with 
a  vague  feeling  that  she  was  to  blame  for  its 
low  temperature,  and  she  had  better  hide  as 
much  of  it  as  possible  in  her  own  long- 
suffering  stomach.  Mrs.  Miller  ordered  a 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  147 

hot  slice  made  for  herself,  and  ate  it  with 
the  air  of  a  martyr,  while  the  conversation 
died  away  entirely. 

Richard  Emmet  was  the  only  son  of  Ger- 
man parents,  —  respectable,  hard-working 
people.  He  had  gone  bare-footed  to  the 
district-school,  a  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed 
little  fellow,  who  had  always  been  "  smart " 
in  the  country  sense.  As  he  grew  older  and 
the  family  finances  improved,  he  had  insisted 
upon  going  away  to  school  and  then  to  one 
of  the  smaller  colleges.  To  be  sure  it  was 
not  much  of  a  college,  and  Richard's  course 
was  only  a  short,  scientific  one ;  but  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emmet  were  as  astonished  at 
owning  a  son  who  was  a  collegian,  as  any 
wren  would  be  who  might  hatch  out  a 
nightingale. 

He  stayed  at  home  for  a  few  years  after 
leaving  college ;  and  his  career,  though  actu- 
ally a  very  quiet  one,  was  full  of  the  most 
electric  surprises  to  his  poor  old  mother, 
who  looked  at  him  with  mingled  admiration 
and  distress.  He  became  a  book-keeper  in 
a  furniture  factory  at  a  good  salary.  He 
began  to  go  to  the  Episcopal  Church,  and 
when  remonstrated  with  by  the  Lutheran 
minister,  for  forsaking  the  faith  of  his  fathers, 


148  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

he  replied  that  he  liked  the  girls  who 
attended  that  church  better  than  those 
who  went  to  his  own. 

Such  an  argument  was  unanswerable. 

He  commenced  to  mount  the  social  ladder  ; 
and  if  it  was  only  a  .step-ladder  in  the  little 
town  of  Milton,  it  was  quite  as  full  of  rounds 
as  a  longer  ladder  in  a  larger  place.  He 
was  handsome,  clever,  and  fairly  educated. 
There  were  very  few  available  young  men 
in  Milton  ;  and  so  it  came  about  that  in  many 
a  house  the  front  door  opened  to  Richard 
Emmet,  where  his  father  and  mother  had 
sought  admittance  at  the  back.  Many  a 
time  he  had  danced  in  patent-leather  shoes 
over  the  very  carpets  that  his  mother  had 
made  and  helped  put  down,  half  a  genera- 
tion ago.  But  Milton  was  too  contracted  an 
arena  for  such  an  aspiring  spirit;  so  when 
his  father  died,  he  took  the  few  thousand 
dollars  which  were  left  to  him  and  went 
West  with  his  little  capital.  He  invested  in 
mines  in  Nevada,  and  so  far  his  adventures 
had  nearly  all  been  successful.  He  was 
growing  rich,  and  in  the  western  town  where 
he  made  his  home,  he  was  a  respected  and 
prosperous  citizen.  It  was  only  when  he 
came  back  to  Milton  that  he  became  con- 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  149 

scious  of  "  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring 
soul,  —  low  birth  and  iron  fortune." 

In  all  old  towns  and  villages  there  is  a  cer- 
tain conservative  element,  which  steadfastly 
resents  anything  new,  particularly  people. 
This  element  may  be,  and  often  is,  much 
poorer  than  the  class  which  it  refuses  to 
know ;  it  is  always  numerically  weaker :  but 
it  never  wavers  in  its  principles.  Like  the 
Old  Guard,  it  dies  (after  a  time)  but  it  never 
surrenders. 

Mrs.  Miller  had  never  "  worked  her  way 
up,"  nor  could  she  remember  when  any  of 
her  family  had  dope  such  a  thing.  Conse- 
quently she  had  no  sympathy  with  those 
who  were  going  through  the  painful  process. 
She  was  remarkably  agile  in  climbing  family 
trees,  and  woe  be  to  the  man  who  had  just 
planted  his.  Though  he  spoke  with  tongue 
of  men  and  of  angels,  and  had  no  grand- 
fathers, he  was  only  a  very  sounding  piece  of 
brass  to  Mrs.  Miller. 

The  circle  of  her  friends  had  narrowed  to 
a  mere  handful,  and  her  life  narrowed  with 
it,  as  lives  do.  And  yet  she  would  not  have 
had  it  any  different.  She  was  like  the  man 
in  that  horrible  story,  whose  torture-chamber 
closes  slowly  around  him  until  it  crushes 


1 50  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

him.  Only  Mrs.  Miller  would  cheerfully 
have  preferred  to  be  crushed,  if  there  had 
been  a  door  wide  open  all  the  time  that  led 
to  unaccustomed  fields  among  unknown 
people.  Her  ideas  were  ridiculous,  false, 
and  unchristian-like,  perhaps ;  but  they  were 
pathetic  in  their  sincerity.  She  could  no 
more  have  recognized  Richard  Emmet  as  a 
social  equal,  than  she  could,  in  her  old  age, 
have  performed  on  a  trapeze.  Both  required 
previous  training. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  she  would  say,  if  remon- 
strated with,  "  I  am  too  old  a  woman  to 
change  my  ways  now."  It  was  quite  true. 
Her  mind,  her  habits  of  thought,  her  ideas, 
had  all  stiffened  with  her  muscles. 

What  there  was  about  Augusta  Miller  to 
attract  Richard  Emmet,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say  ;  yet  coming  back  from  the  rude  civili- 
zation of  Buckskin  City,  Nevada,  she  seemed 
to  him  very  sweet  and  lovely. 

When  he  first  met  and  spoke  to  her  on  the 
street,  and  she  answered  in  her  low,  culti- 
vated voice,  while  the  clear  pink  crept  into 
her  face,  he  thought  her  the  most  exquisite 
woman  that  he  had  ever  known.  Perhaps  it 
was  by  contrast  with  the  women  of  Buckskin 
City,  whose  voices  were  not  low  and  the  pink 
in  whose  cheeks  was  permanent. 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  1 5  I 

When  he  came  back  to  Milton,  it  had  been, 
as  wise  old  Mrs.  Miller  had  divined,  with  the 
thought  of  Rosie  Ryan.  She  was  a  seam- 
stress who  went  out  by  the  day,  sewing. 
She  lived  with  her  consumptive  mother, 
whom  she  supported.  She  was  a  pretty 
girl,  with  a  small,  plump  figure,  black  eyes, 
black  curly  hair,  and  very  red  cheeks. 
There  was  no  engagement  between  her  and 
Richard,  but  Sir  Launcelot  was  never  more 
of  a  hero  to  Elaine  than  he  was  to  her.  She 
had  loved  and  worshipped  him  ever  since  they 
had  gone  to  school  together.  She  had 
fought  his  battles  for  him  then,  as  she 
longed  to  fight  them  with  him  now. 

Richard  had  always  liked  her,  —  indeed, 
when  he  thought  of  her  way  out  in  Buck- 
skin City,  he  was  sure  he  loved  her.  It  was 
a  pity  he  met  Augusta  Miller  first,  for  he 
carried  her  image  with  him  when  he  went 
to  see  Rosie. 

Rosie  lived  in  a  very  small  house,  with 
little  rooms  and  low  ceilings  and  an  air-tight 
stove.  She  and  her  mother  generally  sat  in 
the  neat  little  kitchen  in  the  evening;  but 
since  Richard  had  come  home,  Rosie  had 
lighted  the  glass  kerosene  lamp  in  the  parlor 
every  night,  and  had  carefully  put  on  her 


152  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

best  dress.  She  opened  the  door  when  he 
knocked,  and  her  red  cheeks  turned  a  little 
redder  at  the  sight  of  him.  It  seemed 
oppressively  warm  to  Richard  in  the  little 
parlor.  Rosie's  old  mother  sat  by  the  stove. 
She  had  rather  a  "  cleaned-up  look "  about 
her;  and  Rosie  watched  her  anxiously,  lest 
she  should  say  or  do  something  not  strictly 
proper,  as  many  another  daughter  in  a  more 
luxurious  room  has  watched,  nervously,  for 
maternal  inelegancies. 

The  old  woman  greeted  Richard  so  warmly 
that  it  brought  on  a  paroxysmal  fit  of  cough- 
ing, and  she  was  some  time  in  composing 
herself. 

"  Take  a  cheer,  take  a  cheer,"  she  gasped 
hospitably;  so  Richard  sat  down  near  the 
base-burner  and  looked  around  the  room. 

There  was  a  crazy-work  table-spread  on 
the  table  and  a  worsted  mat  under  the  lamp, 
with  a  crochet  border  around  it  of  Calla 
lilies.  They  were  not  a  very  successful  imi- 
tation, and  Richard  found  himself  absently 
regarding  the  yellow  worsted  centres  and 
thinking  how  much  they  looked  like  cater- 
pillars. Rosie  looked  at  him  with  a  world  of 
love  and  admiration  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
very  pretty  with  her  fresh,  young  coloring; 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  153 

but  somehow  it  looked  just  then  like  a 
coarse  sort  of  beauty  to  Richard.  He 
resented  the  blackness  of  her  hair  and  the 
redness  of  her  cheeks.  It  seemed  to  him 
hardly  delicate  in  a  woman  to  be  so  strongly 
italicized. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  coat,  Dick?  "  she 
said,  after  a  minute's  pause  ;  so  he  rose  and 
commenced  tugging  at  the  heavy  garment. 
She  took  hold  of  it  and  helped  him. 

"  It  is  very  warm  here,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  whose  unpleas- 
ant cough  was  slowly  subsiding,  "  so  it  be. 
I  sez  to  Rosie,  what 's  the  use  of  livin*  if 
you  aint  hot?  Now  there 's  that  big  house 
of  Miss  Tremaine's  where  Rosie 's  been  a- 
sewing,  jest  as  cold,  most  of  it,  es  a  barn. 
What 's  the  use  of  having  all  that  money 
and  not  keeping  hot,  I  sez." 

It  struck  Richard  with  a  sense  of  half  con- 
temptuous pity,  that  luxury  represented  to  this 
poor  old  body  only  so  much  animal  warmth. 

He  turned  to  Rosie :  "  How  have  you 
been,  Rosie,  all  this  time?  "  he  asked. 

"Nicely,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "Will 
you  be  home  long?" 

"  Only  a  week  or  so,"  he  said,  and  avoided 
looking  at  her. 


154  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

It  was  absurd  that  he  should  feel  guilty 
and  mean  before  her.  He  had  never  bound 
himself  to  her  in.  any  way.  He  was  almost 
angry  with  her  for  the  uncomfortable  feeling 
which  crept  over  him. 

"A  high-bred  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  would  n't  show  a  man  so  plainly  that  she 
cared  for  him.  fie  would  have  to  work  for 
her  love  and  win  it  ; "  and  so  he  metaphori- 
cally kicked  the  pearl  at  his  feet,  and  poor 
little  Rosie  felt  the  kick  quite  as  distinctly 
as  if  it  were  a  physical  one. 

"  I  want  you  to  write  in  my  new  autograph- 
album  before  you  go  back,"  she  said. 

"  I  '11  write  in  it  now,"  said  Richard, 
promptly.  Rosie  got  up  and  brought  it. 
It  had  a  crimson  plush  cover  and  a  gilt  clasp. 
He  turned  the  leaves  idly,  and  noticed  the 
fine,  inky  ornithological  specimens,  holding 
scrolls  in  their  mouths. 

"  Could  you  do  a  bird  ? "  asked  Rosie. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could,"  he  answered, 
looking  distrustfully  at  a  large  eagle  with  a 
dislocated  spine,  who  had  imbedded  its  beak 
in  the  motto,  "  Ever  thine." 

"Well,  you  '11  write  a  sentiment  then,  won't 
you?" 

"  I  '11  try." 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  155 

He  drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  and  Rosie 
brought  a  small  bottle  of  ink  and  a  pen.  He 
turned  the  pages  slowly. 

"  Will  about  here  do  ?  " 

"Anywhere,"  said  Rosie,  obligingly. 

He  thought  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could  write  a  sentiment, 
Rosie ;  I  can't  seem  to  think  of  any." 

"  Well,  just  your  name  then,"  she  said 
patiently. 

He  wrote  with  a  bold  hand,  having  made 
several  preparatory  circles  with  his  pen  above 
the  paper,  — 

RICHARD  EMMET, 

Buckskin  City, 

Nevada. 

It  looked  almost  insulting  in  its  brevity, 
after  he  had  finished  it. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  put  '  remember  me '  here,"  he 
said,  writing  it  diagonally  across  the  upper 
left-hand  corner,  "  and  '  when  this  you  see ' 
here,"  and  he  inscribed  that  going  down  hill, 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Rosie,  taking  the  book 
away.  She  had  longed  for  all  that  the  words 
meant,  when  she  asked  for  a  sentiment,  but 
she  concealed  her  disappointment  bravely. 


156  A    WC TIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Her  old  mother  left  the  room  and  went 
into  the  adjoining  kitchen,  where  they  heard 
her  coughing.  She  did  not  come  back  until 
just  before  Richard  left.  He  was  looking  at 
Rosie's  photograph-album. 

"  Have  ye  's  seen  Rosie's  pictur'  ?  "  she 
asked.  "Oh,  but  it's  the  fine  one." 

Richard  had  passed  it  by ;  but  he  turned 
back  to  it  again  and  looked  at  it  attentively. 
It  was  a  badly  taken  photograph,  in  which 
the  young,  blooming  girl  looked  like  a  gaunt, 
awkward  invalid. 

"  It  is  n't  much  like  her,"  he  said  slowly ; 
"  it  looks  sort  of  sick." 

Poor  Rosie's  heart  sank.  She  had  these 
taken  expressly,  hoping  that  he  would  ask  for 
one. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  old  woman,  illogically, 
"  Rosie  's  the  good  girl ;  the  man  that  gets 
her  gets  a  wife  worth  having." 

Rosie  colored  furiously  and  looked  appeal- 
ingly  at  Richard.  He  felt  sorry  for  her. 
"  That 's  so,"  he  said  soothingly,  and  there 
was  a  second's  pause. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  he,  rising 
and  looking  around  for  his  coat. 

"  You  '11  come  and  see  me  again,  won't 
you  ?  "  asked  Rosie,  imploringly. 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  157 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  shook  her  hand 
awkwardly.  He  felt  his  way  with  stumbling 
feet  across  the  little  porch,  and  disappeared  in 
the  darkness. 

Rosie  spent  that  night  in  such  an  agony  of 
grief  and  weeping  as  only  a  young,  strong 
nature  can  experience. 

"  I  cannot  give  him  up  !  "  she  sobbed,  with 
her  head  buried  in  the  pillow,  "  I  cannot  give 
him  up !  "  She  clinched  her  hands  and  lay 
there  rigid  in  her  misery.  "  Oh,  my  love, 
my  love,"  she  cried  again  and  again,  "  I  love 
you  so,  you  must  come  back  to  me  !  I  cannot 
live  without  you.  I  love  you  so,  you  must 
love  me  yet,  —  I  cannot  give  you  up  !  "  The 
poor  girl  had  never  heard  of  Browning ;  but 
she  reached  out,  across  the  gulf  of  her  own 
wretchedness,  and  "  claimed  him  still  for  her 
own  love's  sake." 

Augusta  Miller  had  not  dared  tell  her 
mother  at  that  unfortunate  tea  when  she  was 
so  late,  that  not  only  had  she  met  and  bowed 
to  Richard  Emmet,  but  that  she  had  actually 
spoken  to  him,  that  he  had  answered  that  he 
was  coming  to  see  her,  and  worst  of  all,  —  but 
this  she  scarcely  acknowledged  even  to  her- 
self, —  that  he  had  looked  at  her  as  no  one  yet 
had  ever  looked,  in  all  her  quiet,  uneventful 
life. 


158  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Poor  Augusta !  She  had  never  been 
admired.  It  was  a  little  pitiful  that  at  twenty- 
five  her  heart  should  give  its  first  flutter 
before  an  admiring  glance,  and  her  eyes  fall 
because  other  eyes  looked  at  them  too  closely. 

She  looked  forward  to  Richard  Emmet's 
visit  with  expectation  and  dread.  What 
would  her  mother  say?  She  listened  every 
evening  for  the  bell ;  and  when  it  did  not  ring, 
and  she  knew  she  need  not  expect  him  that 
night,  she  had  a  curious  feeling  of  relief  and 
disappointment. 

Finally,  one  evening  the  bell  rang,  and  it 
seemed  to  Augusta  as  if  it  communicated  in 
some  way  with  her  own  heart,  so  distinctly 
did  she  feel  its  vibrations. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Emmet,"  said  Lottie,  appearing 
at  the  library  door. 

Mrs.  Miller  laid  down  her  paper. 

"What  does  he  want?"  she  asked.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  to  say,  "  Who." 

"  He  asked  for  Miss  Augusta." 

"  For  you,  Augusta  ?  "  said  her  mother,  turn- 
ing and  looking  at  her  in  surprise.  Augusta 
rose  ;  her  knees  trembled,  and  her  hands  were 
like  ice.  She  did  not  answer  her  mother,  but 
walked  across  the  hall  and  gave  her  thin,  cold 
hand  to  Richard  Emmet. 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  159 

It  was  a  large  drawing-room,  furnished 
handsomely  in  the  style  of  forty  years  ago. 
There  were  old  family  portraits  on  the  wall, 
and  two  or  three  tall,  broad  mirrors,  with  wide, 
gilt  frames.  There  were  marble-topped  pier- 
tables  under  the  mirrors,  of  carved  mahogany 
with  claw  feet.  Here  end  there  were  a  few 
modern  touches  in  the  shape  of  bric-a-brac 
and  an  occasional  picture,  and  some  decorated 
screens,  which  screened  nothing,  and  were 
manifestly  in  the  way.  It  was  all  a  little  prim 
perhaps,  and  had  the  conscious  look  of  a  room 
that  had  been  the  best  parlor  for  nearly  half 
a  century. 

It  seemed  to  Augusta  as  if  all  the  chairs 
had  adopted  insolent  and  hostile  attitudes 
toward  Richard  Emmet.  She  hastily  pulled 
out  a  few  into  friendly  positions,  and  sat  down 
near  him.  She  could  hardly  have  told  what 
she  said  at  first,  or  indeed  whether  she  spoke 
at  all ;  but  before  she  knew  it,  they  were  talk- 
ing like  old  friends,  and  he  was  telling  her  of 
Buckskin  City  and  the  strange  life  in  a  west- 
ern mining  town.  He  was  not  a  boaster,  but 
he  talked  well  of  what  he  had  done  himself. 

To  the  timid  Augusta,  who  had  never 
taken  one  step  outside  the  beaten  path  in  all 
her  life,  it  was  marvellous  to  hear  him. 


160  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Here  was  a  man  who  had  dared  almost 
everything ! 

"  I  do  not  think  he  would  even  be  afraid  of 
mamma,"  she  thought  to  herself,  and  looked 
at  him  with  admiration. 

He  saw  that  he  interested  her. 

"So  you  think  you*  would  like  it  West?" 
he  asked  suddenly. 

It  seemed  to  her  almost  an  improper  ques- 
tion. She  could  not  pass  it  off  in  any  light 
way.  She  colored  deeply,  and  did  not  answer. 

"  It  is  very  different  from  the  East,"  he 
said  quickly, —  "  as  unlike  Milton,  as  one  world 
can  be  unlike  another." 

Presently  he  asked  her  to  play  for  him. 
Augusta  looked  her  best  at  the  piano.  Her 
profile  was  clear  and  fine,  her  figure  slender 
and  girlish,  and  her  hands  were  the  typical 
lady's  hands,  very  white  and  slim,  with  beau- 
tiful pink  nails.  There  were  roses  in  the 
room, —  the  kind  of  roses  that  give  out  a  heavy 
perfume  in  a  furnace-heated  house  and  die 
quickly. 

Richard  Emmet  noticed  everything, —  the 
soft  light,  the  quiet,  rich  colors,  the  stately 
old  furniture,  and  the  girl  with  her  fair, 
delicate  face,  whose  white  fingers  flew  over 
the  keys.  He  thought  of  old  Mrs.  Ryan, 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  l6l 

and  wondered  if  she  were  "  hot "  to-night.  He 
thought  of  Rosie  with  a  mournful  sort  of 
pity.  He  looked  at  Augusta,  —  looked  at  her 
from  her  small,  arched  foot  to  her  high-bred 
head,  with  its  pale  gold  hair.  She  seemed  to 
him  perfect.  He  made  up  his  mind  then  and 
there  to  marry  her.  He  was  fond  of -music, 
and  she  played  for  quite  a  long  time.  When 
she  stopped  he  thanked  her,  and  when  he 
left  he  thanked  her  again. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  great,  deal  of  pleas- 
ure," he  said, —  "  more  than  you  know  ;  "  and 
Augusta  went  back  to  the  library,  where  her 
mother  was  waiting  for  her,  with  a  feeling 
that  she  had  passed  a  most  delightful,  excit- 
ing, but  almost  wicked  evening. 

"  Well,  Augusta,"  said  Mrs.  Miller,  "  what 
did  he  want?  " 

"  He  did  n't  want  anything  ;  he  only  came 
to  call." 

"  How  extraordinary  !  Where  did  you  say 
you  met  him?  " 

"  Why,  mamma,"  answered  Augusta,  slowly, 
"  I  told  you  that  I  had  always  known  him ; 
when  he  is  home,  he  goes  everywhere." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Miller. 
"  How  did  he  get  into  society?  Who  let  him 
in?" 

,    ii 


1 62  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

She  looked  at  her  daughter  sternly,  as  if  she 
suspected  her  of  being  the  culprit. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Augusta,  wearily,  and 
added  apologetically,  "  He  is  very  nice." 

"  Nice  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Miller,  "  nice!  Augusta, 
are  you  crazy?  Why,  his  father's  sister  had 
a  son  who  was  a  brakeman,  a  common 
brakeman !  Did  you  say  he  went  to  the 
Tremaines?"  she  added  abruptly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  Elizabeth  Tremaine  always  was  a 
little  queer.  I  don't  see  what  she  's  thinking 
of.  I  hope  he  won't  come  here  again." 

But  he  did ;  his  two  weeks  at  home  length- 
ened to  four,  and  he  came  often  to  the 
Millers. 

Augusta  lived  in  a  dream.  No  one  had 
ever  been  so  kind  to  her  as  he.  It  was  so 
delightful  to  be  talked  to  as  if  she  were  an 
intelligent,  sympathetic  being,  and  listened 
to  as  if  she  had  something  valuable  and  im- 
portant to  say. 

She  found  herself  bringing  out  her  little 
bits  of  thought  with  an  odd  pleasure  at  find- 
ing she  had  them.  It  was  so  delicious  to 
have  some  one  think  she  was  nice  and  pretty, 
and  even  entertaining.  She  was  a  little  afraid 
of  him,  —  afraid  of  the  very  strength  and  confi- 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  163 

dence  which  she  admired ;  but  she  had  never 
been  so  happy. 

If  he  had  been  the  least  coarse  or  boorish, 
even  his  fondness  for  her  would  not  have 
blinded  her  to  it;  but  he  was  not.  He  was 
honest  and  manly,  with  a  sort  of  frank, 
unconventional  manner,  which  went  well 
with  his  large  physique. 

She  did  not  think  of  being  engaged,  or  of 
marrying  him ;  such  crumbs  as  fell  from  love's 
table  more  than  satisfied  her. 

She  played  for  him  nearly  every  time  he 
came ;  and  once  Mrs.  Miller  walked  with 
stately  tread  across  the  hall  and  was  intro- 
duced to  him.  She  came  to  criticise,  and  was 
provoked  to  find  so  little  food  for  criticism. 

"  He  certainly  appeared  very  well,"  she 
said,  afterward,  —  "  not  like  a  gentleman,  of 
course,  but  not  nearly  as  clownish  as  I 
expected." 

One  crisp,  frosty  day  Richard  Emmet  came 
about  four  in  the  afternoon  and  asked  Au- 
gusta to  drive  with  him.  Mrs.  Miller  was  out 
in  the  old  family  sleigh,  half  buried  under 
thick  robes.  Augusta  put  on  her  wraps  very 
quickly,  with  nervous,  fluttering  fingers,  fear- 
ing that  her  mother  might  return ;  and  then, 


1 64  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

with  as  guilty  a  feeling  as  if  she  had  committed 
a  felony,  she  was  tucked  into  the  little  cutter 
and  whirled  off.  Rosie  Ryan  was  sewing  at 
a  front  window  at  the  Tremaines,  and  saw 
them  as  they  drove  by.  Some  big,  bright 
tears  fell  on  her  work,  and  she  had  to  hold 
her  needle  in  her  hand  and  wait  for  a  few 
minutes  before  she  was  able  to  go  on  with 
her  work. 

Richard  did  not  talk  much  to  Augusta; 
he  looked  at  her  intently  from  time  to  time, 
and  her  heart  beat  quickly  at  each  look. 
He  stopped  at  the  greenhouse  beyond  the 
village. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  you  a  few  flowers, 
may  I  ? "  he  asked.  "  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  go  in  too." 

They  went  in  together  and  walked  around, 
admiring  and  selecting,  while  the  old  German 
woman  cut  her  roses.  There  was  a  queer, 
printed  sign  in  the  place,  "Let  the  hands 
off."  Richard  discovered  it  first  and  showed 
it  to  Augusta,  and  they  both  laughed.  They 
were  in  that  mood  when  a  very  little  thing 
amuses.  The  roses  were  finally  all  cut  and 
packed  in  a  box,  —  a  great  fragrant  mass  of 
crimson  and  cream  color  and  white  ;  and 
they  started  for  home.  Augusta  had  taken 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  165 

off  her  glove  in  the  greenhouse,  and  as  they 
drove  off,  she  raised  her  white  hand  to  fix 
her  veil.  When  she  put  it  down  again  under 
the  robe,  Richard  seized  it  and  held  it  fast. 

"  Augusta,"  he  said,  —  he  had  never  called 
her  that  before,  —  "  those  flowers,  you  know, 
they  are  not  half  good  enough,  but  they 
are  for  you.  I  want  you  to  take  them 
and  wear  them  for  me.  I  would  like  to  see 
you  wear  a  flower  that  I  had  given  you ;  will 
you?" 

61  Yes,"  she  answered  faintly. 

He  did  not  speak  again,  but  he  held  her 
hand  firmly  until  they  came  to  the  village. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  heart  beat,  and 
her  life  were  centred,  in  that  imprisoned 
hand.  She  went  in  the  house,  still  wrapped 
in  a  beautiful  rosy  mist. 

"  Augusta,"  her  mother  called  out,  "  is  that 
you?  Hurry  down,  for  tea  is  ready." 

She  did  not  stop  to  unpack  her  flowers, 
so  anxious  was  she  to  propitiate  her  mother 
with  her  haste. 

Mrs.  Miller  made  no  allusions  to  her  drive 
during  tea,  and  Augusta  took  heart,  and 
began  to  feel  quite  brave.  But  when  they 
were  alone  in  the  library,  and  her  mother 
said,  "  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you, 


1 66  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Augusta,"   she  experienced   a  peculiar,  sick, 
dizzy  feeling. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  New  York 
for  a  little  visit,"  continued  her  mother, 
cheerfully. 

"Why?  "  asked  Augusta,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  have  written  to  your  sister  Carrie  about 
it,  and  she  quite  agreed  with  me." 

"Agreed  with  you?     About  what?" 

"About  you,"  said  Mrs.  Miller,  with 
emphasis. 

There  was  a  little  silence  ;  then  the  old 
lady  added,  not  unkindly :  — 

"  I  cannot  have  Richard  Emmet  coming 
here  as  he  has  done.  Of  course,  I  know  he 
would  not  presume  to  mean  anything  by  it, 
but  still  I  'don't  like  it.  I  have  let  it  go  on, 
thinking  he  was  going  away;  but  he  doesn't 
go,  and  it  must  stop.  So  I  think  you  had 
better  go  and  visit  Carrie  for  a  little  while." 

"  Have  you  written  Carrie  about  him  ? " 
asked  Augusta,  quietly. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  a  strong  grasp  had 
been  laid  on  her  heart  that  stopped  its 
beating. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  "  I  told  her  all 
there  was  to  tell,  and  she  was  very  nice  about 
it.  She  offered  to  come  here,  and  said  if  the 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  167 

fellow  grew  impertinent,  or   annoyed   us   in 
any  way,  that  George  would  come  too." 

Augusta  had  an  image  of  George,  of  all 
her  brothers-in-law  coming  on  in  a  body, 
to  sit  in  judgment  on  her  poor  little  love- 
affair. 

She  shivered. 

"  It  has  surprised  me,"  said  her  mother, 
"that  you  have  not  seemed  to  mind  his  com- 
ing here  more.  Perhaps  you  could  not  help 
it ;  such  people  never  have  any  tact,  to  feel 
when  they  are  not  wanted." 

Augusta  was  silent.  Her  beautiful  world 
of  an  hour  ago  had  crumbled  at  her  feet. 

"Where  were  you  this  afternoon?"  her 
mother  asked. 

"  I  was  driving  with  him,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Driving!  With  Richard  Emmet!  Oh, 
Augusta,  this  is  really  too  bad !  Tell  me, 
tell  me  truthfully,"  she  said  sternly,  "has 
that  common,  low-bred  man  dared  to  say  a 
word  of  love  to  you?" 

Augusta  looked  at  her  hand.  She  almost 
expected  to  see  it  shining  with  a  phosphor- 
escent glow. 

"  No,"  she  almost  whispered. 

"Well,  I  am  thankful  to  hear  it.  Why, 
Augusta,  do  you  realize  what  kind  of  people 


1 68  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

they  are?  Common  day  laborers  !  Of  course, 
he  is  a  little  different,  but  it 's  all  the  same 
blood.  I  see  now  where  my  mistake  was.  I 
should  never  have  let  him  come  here  in  the 
first  place.  One  cannot  be  too  reserved  with 
that  class  of  people." 

Augusta  did  not  answer. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear,"  continued  her 
mother,  more  gently,  "  I  will  not  do  you  the 
injustice  to  think  you  care  for  him.  It  is  a 
lonely  life  here,  and  his  was  a  fresh  face ;  and 
I  think  myself  he-  was  rather  entertaining. 
But  you  must  see  yourself,  my  child,  that  it 
is  better  you  should  go  away  for  a  little 
time.  I  think  I  will  write  to  Carrie  to  come 
and  get  you." 

Augusta  was  dumb  before  her.  Life-long 
habits  of  submission  and  self-effacement 
prevented  her  saying  a  word.  She  loved 
Richard  truly  and  sincerely  •  but  how  could 
she  own  that  to  her  mother  when  she  would 
have  to  confess  at  the  same  time  that  he  had 
never  told  her  in  so  many  words  that  he 
loved  her?  All  her  dreams,  her  half- formed 
purposes  and  desires,  were  crushed  before 
this  onslaught  of  her  vigorous,  decided 
mother.  But  she  was  very  miserable,  —  so 
miserable  that  she  lay  awake  a  great  part  of 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  169 

the  night  with  dull,  stony  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ceiling. 

If  her  mother  had  combated  her  affection 
for  Richard,  it  would  perhaps  have  been  easier 
to  resist  her.  But  she  had  not.  She  had 
simply  set  it  aside  as  too  monstrous  a  thing 
to  be  even  thought  of,  too  ridiculous  to  be 
believed  in.  She  wondered  what  would  hap- 
pen if  Richard  should  ask  her  to  marry  him, 
and  she  should  say  yes.  She  could  not  think 
of  it  now  with  any  shy  half-glances,  any 
sweet,  tremulous  hopes.  It  stood  before  her 
with  all  the  covering  of  romance  rudely 
snatched  away.  She  thought  of  her  sisters, 
and  the  fine,  polite  scorn  with  which  they 
would  treat  Richard.  She  thought  of  her 
brothers-in-law,  and  their  surprise  at  "  this 
freak  of  Augusta's."  Why,  they  would  be 
ashamed  that  their  wives'  sister  should  do 
such  a  thing.  And  her  own  brothers,  oh ! 
they  would  kill  Richard,  or  else  they  would 
treat  him  in  such  a  way  that  he  would  kill 
them. 

They  would  never  let  her  be  married  at 
home.  She  would  have  to  run  away  with 
him,  without  any  wedding  clothes,  and  be 
married  by  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  it 
would  be  in  all  the  papers.  And  then 


I/O  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Richard  would  take  her  to  Buckskin  City. 
Somehow  it  did  not  have  a  very  friendly 
sound.  She  was  feverishly  hot ;  but  she 
shivered  and  shuddered  as  she  tortured 
herself,  imagining  all  these  things.  She 
thought  of  all  the  trouble  she  would  bring 
on  Richard,  for  it  never  occurred  to  her  but 
that  he  would  suffer  as  keenly  as  she. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  cried ;  "  it  will 
kill  me ! " 

Once  she  thought  wildly  of  defying  them 
all  and  just  trusting  to  Richard  ;  but  she  had 
not  the  comfort  of  his  assured  love,  and  she 
could  not  face  such  a  situation.  She  dis- 
covered her  roses  in  the  morning  all  withered 
in  the  box.  She  had  been  so  wretched  the 
night  before' that  she  had  forgotten  all  about 
them,  and  they  lay  there  like  a  mute  reproach. 

It  was  a  long,  dreary  day  for  Augusta;  and 
late  in  the  afternoon  she  started  for  a  walk, 
although  it  was  snowing  a  little,  and  the 
wind  was  blowing.  She  walked  through  the 
village,  and  on,  nearly  to  Mrs.  Kaufmann's. 
Suddenly  she  saw  Richard  Emmet  coming 
from  the  greenhouse  with  a  large  box  under 
his  arm.  She  recognized  him  with  a  dull 
pain  at  her  heart,  and  knew  in  the  same 
instant  that  he  had  been  getting  more  roses 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  lj\ 

for  her.  She  would  have  turned  and  fled, 
but  he  saw  her  and  hastened  toward  her. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  "  he  cried; 
then  looking  at  her  face  he  added  quickly, 
"  Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  tried  to  smile. 

But  he  knew  that  there  was.  The  subtle, 
magnetic  understanding  which  had  existed 
between  them  yesterday  was  broken.  He  felt 
it  instantly,  and  his  whole  manner  changed. 

She  turned,  and  they  walked  back  toward 
the  village  together. 

"  What  is  it,  Augusta  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered  desperately. 
"  Mamma  —  that  is  —  I  am  going  away." 

His  face  darkened. 

"  Has  your  mother  been  talking  to  you 
about  me?  Is  that  it?" 

Augusta  nodded  ;  she  could  not  speak. 

"  What  has  she  been  saying?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Does  she  think  I  have  been  too  attentive 
to  you  ?  Is  she  afraid  I  may  be  more  so  ?  " 

She  nodded  again.  She  would  have  been 
grateful  at  that  moment  if  the  fate  which 
overtook  Korah  in  the  Bible  had  been  hers, 
and  the  earth  had  opened  and  swallowed 
her  up.. 


1/2  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

Richard  Emmet  went  on  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "I  see  how  it  is.  Your  mother  is 
afraid  I  might  so  far  forget  myself  and  my 
position  as  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  Well, 
I  do  —  will  you,  Augusta  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  squarely  and  earnestly; 
but  there  was  less  of  tenderness  in  his  face 
for  her  than  defiance  for  her  mother. 

Augusta  looked  at  him  piteously.  "  Ah, 
Richard,"  she  gasped,  "don't,  don't!" 

"  Don't !  "  he  repeated.  "  You  are  afraid  of 
her,  then  ?  What  did  she  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  She  said  —  oh,  it  is  all  too  dreadful !  " 
cried  the  poor  girl. 

"  She  talked  about  my  father,  perhaps. 
Well,  nobody  wants  you  to  marry  him, 
though  he  was  a  good  man,  — much  better,  I 
dare  say,  than  one  she  would  select.  Had 
she  anything  to  say  against  me  ?  Have  you 
anything  against  me  ? "  He  looked  at  her 
proudly  and  indignantly. 

Augusta  shook  her  head  ;  her  face  quivered. 
It  was  all  very  terrible  to  her. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  continued,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  looking  at  her  very  attentively, 
"  I  believed  you  cared  for  me.  Did  you, 
Augusta  ?  " 

She  turned  her  head  away  and  was  silent. 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  173 

"  And  yet  to-day,"  he  went  on,  "  you  dare 
not  tell  me  so.  You  are  afraid  —  What  is 
there  to  be  afraid  of?  If  you  will  marry 
me,  I  will  take  you  away  from  all  these 
people  who  frighten  you.  Nobody  shall 
hurt  you,  nobody  shall  dare  say  a  word  to 
you.  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

If  he  had  called  her  "  darling ;  "  if  he 
could  have  put  his  arm  around  her  and  made 
her  feel  that  he  loved  her,  poor,  shrinking 
Augusta  might  have  placed  her  fate  in  his 
hands.  But  he  was  a  different  Richard  from 
the  one  she  knew.  She  was  almost  as  much 
afraid  of  this  defiant,  peremptory  man,  as 
she  was  of  her  mother. 

"Oh,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "I  can't     I- 
oh,  have  pity  on  me  —  I  can't  !  " 

"  Is  it  only  that  you  are  afraid ;  or,"  and 
a  quick  suspicion  crossed  his  face,  "  per- 
haps you  think  I  am  too  low  and  common 
to  dream  of  such  a  thing,  too.  Perhaps  you 
have  deceived  me  all  the  time.  Is  that  it  ? 
Are  you  ashamed  of  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Richard,  you  know  it  is  not  that.  I 
love  you  dearly;  but,  but —  they  would  never 
let  me,  I  — "  and  she  stopped  with  a  half 
sob. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.     His  was  a 


1/4  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

rough  nature  after  all.  When  the  woman 
who  had  seemed  so  much  above  him  in  her 
fineness  and  purity,  showed  herself  a  coward, 
and  more  bound  by  the  traditions  of  her  class 
than  by  love,  which  she  confessed  when  she 
gave  him  up,  his  primitive  nature  revolted. 
He  despised  in  an  instant  the  class  to  which 
she  belonged ;  he  almost  despised  her.  He 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  unjust  to  her  for 
not  defending  the  love  which  he  had  only 
just  now  offered  her. 

"  And  yet  you  would  let  them  talk  of  me 
as  if  I  were  an  outcast,  the  very  scum  of  the 
earth,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  You  would  not  have 
the  courage  to  own  to  a  living  soul  that  you 
love  me.  You  would  not  dare  to  marry  me. 
I  am  only  an  honest  man — I  would  have 
given  you  the  best  of  my  heart  and  my  life ; 
but  that  counts  for  nothing." 

All  his  manhood  and  self-respect  rose  up 
against  the  insult  which  he  thought  she 
offered  him. 

Augusta  wished  she  were  dead.  She  had 
no  word  of  excuse  or  defence.  He  might 
have  reviled  her  a  hundredfold  more  and 
she  could  not  have  spoken. 

"It  is  a  disappointment,"  he  said  quietly, 
after  a  little  ;  "  I  thought  you  were  finer  and 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  175 

better  than  I.  I  thought  all  these  little  dif- 
ferences that  your  mother  thinks  so  much  of, 
in  education  and  surroundings,  made  people 
higher  and  nobler.  I  'm  not  a  gentleman, 
and  I  never  had  a  nice  thing  in  my  life  that 
I  did  n't  work  for  and  win  it  myself;  but  if  I 
loved  a  woman,  no  matter  who  or  what  she 
was,  if  I  took  her  off  from  the  street,  I  would 
honor  her  and  be  true  to  her.  And  you  — 
why,  I  don't  see  what  it  all  means.  What  are 
your  breeding  and  your  culture  and  your 
refinement  for?  You  aren't  brave,  you 
are  n't  true,  you  don't  know  how  to  love, — 
and  even  a  lady  is  n't  worth  much  without 
that" 

He  was  terribly  cruel  and  unjust;  but 
Augusta  felt  no  resentment,  —  only  a  heavy 
sense  of  misery. 

Even  then,  if  she  could  have  said,  simply, 
"  Richard,  I  do  love  you,  and  I  will  marry 
you  to-morrow  and  go  anywhere  with  you," 
she  might  have  checked  the  tide  in  his  heart 
that  was  running  all  away  from  her,  and 
turned  it  back  —  a  warm,  passionate  flood  — 
upon  herself. 

He  would  have  loved  her  with  an  added 
love  that  recognized  her  bravery  and  appre- 
ciated her  sacrifice.  But  she  could  no  more 


\J6  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

have  said  this  to  the  indignant,  resentful 
man  beside  her  than  she  could  have  flown. 

They  walked  on  in  silence ;  his  vanity  was 
hurt,  his  pride  humbled,  his  ideals  shattered. 
He  felt  sore  and  wretched.  Suddenly  a 
thought  flashed  through  his  mind,  —  the 
thought  of  Rosie.  The  memory  of  her  came 
with  a  feeling  of  warmth  and  comfort  and 
delight.  His  heart  leaped  up  at  the  image 
of  her. 

He  stopped.  "  I  am  going  down  this 
street,"  he  said.  "  Good-by,  Augusta,"  and 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

Her  face  looked  pinched  and  blue.  She 
gave  him  her  hand,  but  it  was  as  lifeless  as 
an  empty  glove. 

He  looked  at  her,  half  pityingly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  began,  and  then  stopped 
abruptly  and  turned  away.  In  a  second  he 
had  turned  back.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  I  got 
these  roses  for  you  ;  take  them." 

"  Oh,  I  would  rather  not,"  she  cried.  "  I 
don't  want  them." 

"  They  are  yours,"  he  insisted,  still  holding 
out  the  box. 

"  I  don't  want  them ;  I  —  " 

"Take  them,"  he  said  sternly,  and  poor 
Augusta  meekly  took  them.  She  thought 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  177 

of  those  other  withered  roses  at  home,  and 
walked  up  the  village  street  with  an  odd 
feeling  that  she  was  carrying  flowers  to  her 
own  funeral. 

Richard  Emmet  went  straight  to  Rosie's 
home  after  he  left  Augusta.  It  was  dark  in 
the  little  parlor,  for  Rosie  had  given  up  light- 
ing the  parlor  lamp  every  evening,  now. 
She  came  to  the  door,  as  she  had  done 
before.  He  stepped  inside  and  looked  at 
her  eagerly. 

"  Rosie,"  he  said,  without  any  other  greet- 
ing, "  I  've  come  to  see  if  you  will  marry  me 
and  go  back  to  Nevada  with  me." 

She  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  I'll  be  fair  with  you,  Rosie,  and  tell  you 
the  whole  truth.  I  ought  to  have  come  to 
you  when  I  first  came  home,  —  I  meant  to ; 
and  then  I  saw  Augusta  Miller,  and,  Rosie,  she 
seemed  to  me  better  than  any  woman  I  had 
ever  seen.  I  don't  know  if  I  loved  her,  but 
I  wanted  her.  She  seemed  to  me  more  like 
an  angel  than  a  woman.  I  wanted  her,  as  I 
never  wanted  anything;  but  I  was  too  low, 
too  common,  to  touch  such  fine  clay  as  that. 
Oh,  it  was  all  a  mistake  !  She  is  n't  an  angel, 
she  is  n't  even  a  live  woman.  I  have  cried 
for  the  moon,  Rosie,  and  that's  all  the  good 

12 


1/8  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

it 's  done  me  !  But  if  you  '11  take  me,  know- 
ing all  about  it,  and  just  how  silly  I  am,  — if 
you  '11  take  me,  I  '11  try  and  make  you  a 
good  husband.  I  know  I  don't  deserve  you. 
I  —  I  —  Why,  Rosie,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 
for  Rosie  had  turned  very  pale ;  then  she  had 
put  both  arms  around  his  neck  and  was 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I  love  you  so,  I  love  you  so  ! " 
she  said. 

He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her 
close  to  him. 

"  I  would  n't  take  you,  Dick,"  she  said, 
brokenly,  "  if  I  were  n't  sure  that  I  love  you 
more  than  she  could.  Oh,  Dick,  if  she  could 
go  with  you  and  do  for  you  better  than  I 
could ;  if  she  would  work  for  you  and  take 
care  of  you,  and  love  you,  as  you  ought  to 
be  loved,  why,  I  would  n't  say  a  word.  I  'd 
just  stand  aside  and  die,  may  be,  but  I 
would  n't  complain.  But,  oh,  Dick,  she 
couldn't!  She  isn't  our  kind.  I  thought 
more  of  that,  of  what  you  would  suffer  if  you 
did  it,  than  I  did  of  myself.  I  'm  not  like 
her,  I  know,  Dick,  dear,  but  oh,  I  love  you 
so!" 

He  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  full,  red 
lips.  Her  head  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and  the 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  179 

light,  powdery  snow  which  he  had  brought 
in  on  his  coat  melted  beneath  her  warm,  red 
cheek  ;  so,  as  he  kissed  her  the  image  of 
Augusta  Miller,  with  all  that  she  had  repre- 
sented, melted  forever  from  his  life. 

Augusta  went  up  to  her  own  room.  She 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over 
the  level  stretch  of  lawn,  where  a  few  gnarled 
apple-trees  stood  sentinel.  It  was  almost 
dark,  and  the  trees  looked  gray  and  shadowy 
in  the  dim  light.  It  came  across  her  sud- 
denly, that  life  would  be  very  full  of  dark, 
gray  days,  and  that  she  would  stand  a  great 
many  times  at  this  window  and  look  out  on 
the  lawn.  She  twisted  her  slim,  white  hands 
together;  her  face  was  very  sad.  She  won- 
dered if  she  would  live  a  long  time;  she 
thought  of  herself  growing  old,  old  as  her 
mother  was  now,  and  treading  always  in  the 
same  narrow  path.  Never  again,  she  knew, 
would  a  gate  be  opened  to  her  leading  into 
another  life.  It  was  over,  and  only  the  long, 
level  days  of  the  future  stretched  endlessly 
before  her.  She  leaned  her  hand  against  the 
cold  window-pane,  and  its  coldness  felt  good 
to  her.  Finally,  with  the  burden  of  all  the 
coming  years  resting  heavily  upon  her,  she 
went  down  and  met  her  mother.  She  looked 


l8O  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

old  and  haggard,  and  her  mother  noticed  it, 
and  something  like  pity  stirred  at  her  heart. 

"  Are  n't  you  well,  Augusta  ?  "  she  asked ; 
"  you  look  pale." 

Augusta  smiled  faintly.  "  Yes,"  she 
answered,  "  I  am  quite  well  ;  "  and  then  they 
talked  of  the  little  happenings  of  the  day  in 
the  village,  and  of  household  matters,  and 
presently  they  went  out  to  tea. 

The  old  silver  shone  and  the  old-fashioned 
cut-glass  glistened  above  the  polished  table. 
Lottie  waited  upon  them  with  painful  alacrity. 
Everything  was  refined,  dainty,  and  deli- 
cious; and  yet  to  Augusta  it  was  but  a  mess 
of  pottage,  for  which  she  had  sold  her  birth- 
right. She  did  not  speak  of  Richard  Emmet ; 
indeed,  from  that  day  his  name  was  never 
mentioned  between  mother  and  daughter. 
They  lived  their  lives  out  together,  and  yet 
as  much  apart  as  if  a  solid  wall  of  masonry 
were  built  between  them. 

Mrs.  Miller  was  sorry  for  Augusta ;  but 
what  could  you  expect?  If  she  threw  herself 
right  in  the  way  of  her  mother's  invincible, 
cast-iron  prejudices,  something  must  give 
way,  —  and  it  could  not  be  the  prejudices. 
And  yet  sometimes  a  sad  conviction  forced 
itself  upon  Augusta,  that  if  she  had  resisted, 


A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE.  l8l 

—  if  she  had  defied  her  mother,  and  boldly 
brought  down  the  storm  upon  her  head, 
withstanding  its  fury  as  best  she  could,  she 
and  her  mother  would  have  come  nearer 
together  after  all.  There  would  have  been 
respect  and  understanding  between  them 
such  as  never  before  existed.  She  might 
have  remained  an  enemy;  but  it  would  have 
been  an  enemy  on  an  equal  footing  ;  she 
would  never  have  been  a  bond-slave. 

As  it  was,  Augusta  had  nothing.  There 
is  a  great  sweetness  in  the  giving  up  of  hap- 
piness for  another's  sake  ;  but  there  is  no 
satisfaction  and  only  a  miserable  regret  to 
that  man  who  lets  his  happiness  escape  from 
him,  because  he  is  not  strong  enough  to  hold 
it.  So  it  was  with  Augusta  Miller ;  she 
blamed  no  one,  but  the  pity  and  the  sadness 
of  it  all  never  left  her. 

Once  only  in  all  the  years  did  she  show 
how  deep  the  affection  was,  which  had  been 
at  the  same  time  so  timid.  It  was  when 
Rosie,  now  Mrs.  Richard  Emmet,  was  home 
on  one  of  her  periodic  visits.  She  was  a 
grand  lady  now,  clad  in  velvet  and  diamonds. 
Augusta  did  not  envy  her  these  ;  but  once  on 
the  street  she  met  her  baby,  Richard's  child. 
It  was  in  a  beautiful  little  carriage,  and  a  neat, 


1 82  A    VICTIM  OF  PREJUDICE. 

respectable  woman  was  with  it.  Augusta 
spoke  to  the  child  ;  then  she  looked  up  and 
down  the  street.  No  one  was  in  sight.  She 
leaned  over  and  kissed  the  baby.  "It  is  the 
kiss,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  that  I  never 
gave  to  its  father ;  I  send  it  to  him  now." 

Then  she  put  down  her  veil  and  walked 
rapidly  up  the  street,  a  tall,  pale,  uninterest- 
ing woman,  whose  misery  and  heartache  no 
one  ever  knew. 


THE   MIDDLE   MISS  TALLMAN.1 

'  I  "HE  sexton  came  into  the  church  and 
J-  turned  up  the  gas.  It  was  a  large  old 
church,  without  columns  or  arches,  and, 
though  a  dignified  old  building,  there  was  a 
certain  bareness  and  rigidity  about  it,  which 
even  the  evergreen  arches  and  flowering  plants, 
with  which  it  was  at  present  filled,  failed  to 
relieve.  The  girls  of  Weston  had  always  said 
it  was  a  hard  church  to  trim.  They  could  do 
nothing  with  it  at  Christmas,  except  hang 
great  ropes  of  green  from  the  corners  to  the 
centre  chandelier;  and  they  were  always 
afraid  these  would  break  from  their  moorings 
and  annihilate  a  portion  of  the  congregation. 
It  was  even  worse  at  a  wedding ;  there  seemed 
no  point  of  attack,  no  prominent  place  to 
lavish  one's  efforts  upon. 

It  was  a  church  that  lent  itself  unwillingly 
to  decoration,  and  looked  as  if  it  privately 
disapproved  of  it.  The  young  men  and 
maidens  of  Weston  had  done  their  best  with 
it  to-day,  and  half  of  the  trouble  and  material 

1  Reprinted  from  "  The  Home  Maker." 


1 84  THE  MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN. 

that  they  had  taken,  would  have  made  a  more 
beautiful  building  blossom  like  the  rose. 

"  It  swallows  up  all  our  decorations,"  Lil- 
ian Tallman  had  said,  "  until  they  have  no 
more  effect  than  a  buttonhole  bouquet  laid 
in  each  pew." 

But  the  sexton  did  n't  think  so.  He  stood 
a  moment  after  turning  up  the  gas,  and  gazed 
admiringly  around. 

Then  there  was  a  noise  in  the  vestibule,  a 
sound  of  laughing  voices,  and  a  gay  party  of 
young  people  came  in. 

It  was  easy  to  pick  out  the  bride-elect. 
Not  only  was  she  the  prettiest  of  all  the  girls, 
but  she  had  a  certain  air  of  importance  and 
authority.  She  was  excited,  but  not  so 
much  so  but  that  she  knew  perfectly  what  she 
wanted. 

"  We  'd  better  begin  right  away,"  she  said, 
"  for  we  may  have  to  do  it  over  four  or  five 
times.  Here,  Alec,  you  come  with  me  and 
be  papa.  I  could  n't  get  papa  to  come  out 
to-night.  Now,  mamma,  you  go  and  sit  in 
the  front  pew,  and  criticise.  Sam,  you  and 
Mr.  Hickok  come  in  from  the  vestry  door 
and  meet  me  at  the  chancel.  Now,  you  ushers, 
you  go  first,  about  four  pews  apart,  I  think." 

"  I  always  did  hate  this  sneaking  in  from 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  185 

the  vestry,"  said  the  groom,  a  tall,  slim  young 
man,  with  an  expressionless  face  and  very 
handsome  clothes. 

"  You  want  to  '  sit  on  the  fence  and  throw 
stones  at  the  procession/  if  you  can't  be  in 
it,"  said  the  bride,  laughing.  "  Now,  don't  be 
peering  out  of  the  vestry  door,  —  that  looks  so 
ridiculous.  You  can  tell  by  the  organ  when 
we  start,  and  you  need  n't  come  out  until  the 
ushers  are  half  way  up  the  aisle." 

"  That 's  right,"  murmured  the  groom  ; 
"  keep  me  out  of  sight  just  as  long  as  possible! 
A  man  's  awfully  in  the  way  at  his  own  wedding. 
I  wish  you  could  be  married  without  me, 
Kittie." 

"  I  could,"  she  said  quickly,  and  laughed. 
"  Now,  boys,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  ushers, 
"  don't  forget  that  one  of  you  must  have  Mr. 
Ellsworth's  and  Mr.  Hickok's  hats  here  in 
the  vestibule.  You  remember,  Will  Corning, 
when  Grace  Patten  was  married,  the  ushers 
forgot  about  Mr.  Humphrey's  hat,  and  he 
had  to  leave  her  on  the  church  steps,  subject 
to  pneumonia  and  the  jeers  of  the  populace, 
while  he  went  back  to  hunt  for  it,  and  he 
could  n't  find  it,  after  all,  and  had  to  borrow 
the  sexton's.  He  looked  too  absurd,  and  he 's 
been  queer  ever  since." 


1 86  THE  MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN. 

The  little  procession  was  formed.  The  or- 
ganist, who  had  come  in,  played  a  wedding 
march,  and  they  moved  slowly  up  the  aisle. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Kittie,  "  I  wish  papa  had 
come.  I  'm  sure  he  '11  make  a  mistake.  I 
wish  I  dared  chalk  the  place  for  his  feet  here 
on  the  carpet" 

"  Kittie,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  "  when  will 
you  give  me  your  bouquet  to  hold,  —  before  we 
all  kneel  or  afterward  ?  " 

"  Afterward,  I  think,"  said  Kittie,  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  knew  a  girl,"  said  the  young  man  who 
had  been  called  Will  Corning,  "  who  had  her 
bridesmaids  all  kneel  and  count  ten,  so  they  'd 
be  sure  and  get  up  together." 

"  How  abs,urd  !  "  said  Kittie. 

"  Well,  it  was  much  prettier  than  to  have 
them  struggling  on  to  their  feet  one  at  a 
time." 

"  Of  course,  but  I  don't  see  the  necessity. 
The  girls  can  just  watch  me  and  get  up  when 
I  do." 

"  I  see,"  laughed  the  young  man,  "  don't 
count  ten,  but  keep  an  eye  open." 

There  were  the  usual  complications  and 
mistakes,  and  the  little  rehearsal  was  repeated 
three  or  four  times. 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN.  187 

"  Shall  you  say  '  obey,'  Kittie?"  asked  one 
of  the  bridesmaids. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  it 's  easier  to 
say  it  and  not  do  it,  than  it  is  not  to  say  it. 
Mr.  Hickok,"  she  continued,  "  you  '11  have 
the  ring  all  ready  for  Sam,  won't  you  ?  Pro- 
longed searchings  at  such  a  time  are  so 
dreadful." 

"  Now,  Kittie,"  said  her  mother  from  the 
front  pew,  "  do  answer  distinctly  and  audibly." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Lilian,  "  don't  speak  as 
if  you  were  confiding  a  secret  to  the  minister." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right,"  said  Kittie,  "  you  'd 
better  talk  to  Sam.  Bessie  Seymour's  hus- 
band said,  '  and  thereto  I  plute  thee  my 
trite,'  instead  of  '  plight  thee  my  troth,'  and 
then  made  the  frivolous  excuse  that  '  his 
throat  got  dry.'  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
a  plain  '  trite  '  is,  to  say  nothing  of  a  '  pluted  ' 
one !  " 

There  was  more  light  talk  and  laughter, 
much  taking  of  positions  and  arranging  of 
groups. 

Then  they  decided  where  to  put  the  white 
satin  ribbon,  which  was  to  divide  the  unin- 
vited goats  from  the  invited  and  full-dressed 
sheep. 

Then,  still  laughing  and   chattering,  they 


1 88  THE  MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN. 

drifted  out,  and  left  the  old  church,  which 
seemed  to  look  after  them  with  a  solemn  and 
disapproving  air. 

At  the  door,  one  of  the  young  men,  a 
stranger  in  the  place,  turned  to  a  pretty 
girl  who  was  standing  near  him,  and  who 
had  been  rather  more  silent  than  the  others 
in  the  church. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  you  are  Miss  Tall- 
man's  sister?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quietly,  "  I  am  Kittie's 
sister,  —  the  middle  Miss  Tallman." 

He  looked  at  her  a  second.  "  The  middle 
of  the  sandwich  is  always  the  best,"  he  said, 
and  added,  "  even  when  the  bread  is  very 
good,  too." 

She  laughed,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  But  you  will  be  promoted  to-morrow," 
he  continued,  "  and  inherit  your  sister's 
card-plate." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  and  added  softly,  as  if  to 
herself,  "  I  wonder  if  it  will  make  any 
difference?  " 

Some  of  the  others  came  up  then,  and  she 
left  him  and  joined  her  sister. 

She  had  a  sweet  face,  though  not  as  pretty 
as  the  bride's.  Kittie  was  rather  too  pretty, 
too  bright,  too  full  of  delightful  animal  spirits. 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN.  189 

There  was  no  sense  of  restfulness  about 
her. 

Her  laugh  was  musical  and  contagious, 
but  one  wanted  to  feel  well  himself  when  he 
heard  it  or  saw  her.  An  invalid  once  said 
she  was  the  most  depressing  person  he  had 
ever  seen.  Her  youth  and  health  and  jollity 
seemed  to  overpower  him  like  a  great  flood, 
and  entirely  extinguish  his  feeble  spark  of 
vitality. 

There  are  some  people  whom,  without  hav- 
ing to  "  die  young,"  "  the  gods  love."  They  are 
darlings  of  Fortune,  who  denies  them  noth- 
ing, though  they  never  seem  to  thank  her, 
and  hold  her  gifts  lightly. 

Kittie  Tallman  was  one  of  these.  She  had 
danced  through  life  in  silk  stockings  and 
French  slippers.  Others  might  make  the 
same  journey,  not  dancing,  but  walking,  creep- 
ing, even  stumbling  along;  coarsely,  clum- 
sily shod,  or  with  bare,  bleeding  feet.  But  of 
these  she  knew  nothing.  Life  had  shown  her 
"  only  the  flaunting  of  its  tulip  flower." 

No  one  was  surprised  when  Kittie  married 
Sam  Ellsworth,  the  only  son  of  a  very  rich 
father,  and  a  pleasant,  manly  fellow  besides. 
They  would  have  been  surprised  if  she  had 
done  anything  else,  for  the  habit  of  being 


190  THE   MIDDLE  MISS  TALLMAN. 

happy  seems  as  hard  as  its  opposite  to 
break. 

But  soon  after  she  was  married,  a  sorrow 
just  brushed  her  with  its  wing  in  passing, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  emptied  more  good 
fortune  into  her  lap. 

Her  husband's  father  died,  and  Sam  came 
into  his  inheritance. 

Kittie  wrote  home  of  all  the  changes  in 
their  plans  that  this  would  make. 

"  We  are  going  abroad,"  she  wrote  to  her 
mother,  "  as,  of  course,  we  cannot  go  out 
here  this  winter ;  and  I  have  decided  to  get 
my  mourning  in  Paris, —  they  make  such 
cheerful,  stylish  mourning  there.  And  it 
seemed  absurd  to  keep  all  my  pretty  wed- 
ding clothes,  when  it  will  be  so  long  before 
I  can  wear  them  again;  so  I  have  sent 
three  trunks  full  of  things  home  to  the  girls. 
My  dresses  just  fit  Nellie,  and  I  have  sent 
the  most  of  them  to  her.  Lilian  is  so  much 
taller  and  slighter,  everything  would  have  to 
be  altered  for  her ;  but  there  are  some  wraps 
and  hats  she  can  wear,  and  I  think  my  pink 
brocade  might  fit  her  —  it  was  horribly  tight 
for  me.  The  slippers  and  parasols  and  fans 
they  must  divide.  I  should  feel  awfully  to 
part  with  all  these  pretty  things,  for  most  of 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.         191 

them  I  have  never  had  on ;  but  I  shall  wear 
black  for  a  year,  and  perhaps  longer,  as  Sam 
was  the  only  son.  Then  before  we  come 
home  I  shall  get  new  supplies  of  everything 
in  London  and  Paris,  and  I  want  the  girls  to 
enjoy  these  things  while  they  are  new  and 
fresh." 

So  the  dainty  wedding  finery  came  back  to 
the  old  home,  and  the  two  girls  divided  it. 

"  Isn't  it  fun?"  said  Lilian,  "just  as  good 
as  being  married,  and  without  any  of  the 
trouble." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Nellie ;  "  it  seems  to 
me,  somehow,  as  if  Kittie  were  dead,  and  we 
were  taking  her  things." 

"  Oh,  how  horrible !  What  makes  you  say 
such  a  disagreeable  thing?" 

"  I  don't  mean  that  exactly,"  Nellie  hastily 
explained  ;  "  but  don't  you  see?  These  things 
are  so  like  her,  they  seem  part  of  her  per- 
sonality, and  yet  she  is  n't  here." 

"  Yes,  they  are  like  her,"  said  the  younger 
sister,  "  and  she  had  such  good  taste  !  " 

She  was  trying  on  a  little  white-lace  bonnet 
as  she  spoke,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
mirror,  holding  up  a  hand-glass. 

"  Nellie,"  she  said,  "  do  you  mind  if  I  take 
this?" 


192  THE  MIDDLE    MISS    TALLMAN. 

"  Oh,  no,  Lilian,  take  anything  that  you 
can  use.  I  feel  guilty  that  I  am  just  her 
size.  I  wish  that  you  could  have  them  all. 
Somehow  they  make  me  sad  —  dear  Kittie, 
they  are  so  like  her !  "  and  she  laid  her 
cheek  lovingly  against  a  soft  brown  embroi- 
dered wrap. 

"  Put  that  on,"  said  Lilian.  Nellie  threw 
it  around  her  shoulders. 

"  That 's  very  becoming,  Nellie.  You  look 
quite  like  Kittie  in  it." 

Nellie  threw  it  off  hastily.  "  That 's  just 
what  I  mean,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  n't  only  the 
things,  —  it 's  a  part  of  Kittie  that  goes  with 
them.  It  seems  like  stealing  some  one  else's 
character  to  wear  them." 

Lilian  laughed.  "  I  don't  understand  you, 
and  I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "  I  think  it  was 
very  considerate  of  Sam's  father  to  die. 
Now  Kittie  has  all  the  money,  and  we  have 
all  these;  and  the  more  I  look  like  Kittie, 
the  better  I  shall  like  it." 
,  But  Nellie  folded  all  her  new  possessions, 
and  put  them  back  in  the  trunks.  The 
middle  Miss  Tallman  had  never  been  like 
the  other  two.  She  was  quieter  and  more 
reserved.  She  had  been  a  very  good  back- 
ground for  her  handsome,  brilliant  sister.  If 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  193 

she  had  been  a  little'  overshadowed,  a  little 
slighted  on  account  of  this  same  sister,  who 
was  to  blame  ? 

Every  one  notices  the  prettiest  face  first, 
and  it  is  the  quickest  tongue  that  makes  it- 
self heard  the  oftenest.  Then  Kittie  was  the 
oldest;  it  had  seemed  right  that  everything 
should  be  hers. 

Nellie,  herself,  had  never  questioned  it; 
she  was  too  unselfish,  and  loved  her  sister 
too  dearly.  She  had  thought  sometimes 
how  wonderful  it  must  be  to  be  like  Kittie, 
and  have  every  one  look  at  you  and  admire 
you,  how  wonderful  to  have  friends  and 
lovers  by  the  score !  One  lover  seemed  a 
very  marvellous  thing  to  Nellie  Tallman,  a 
thing  to  be  thought  of  with  awe  and  rever- 
ence ;  but  Kittie  had  successfully  managed 
two  or  three  at  a  time. 

Nellie  had  never  envied  her,  but  she  had 
longed  sometimes  to  wield  her  sceptre  also 
in  the  kingdom  of  hearts.  Power  is  very 
sweet,  —  not  less  to  the  young  girl  when 
she  discovers  that  she  holds  it,  than  to  the 
man  who  has  snatched  a  crown  and  put 
it  on. 

Her  sister's  marriage  made  very  little 
change  in  Nellie's  affairs.  Her  family  had 


194  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

never  expected  her  to  be  a  very  active 
member,  and  so  she  never  was,  for  we  live 
mostly  just  as  those  around  us  expect  us  to 
live.  Nothing  is  so  hard  to  batter  down,  as 
that  wall  which  other  people's  opinion  of  us 
builds  up.  Nellie  was  thought  to  be  shy 
and  reserved,  and  the  very  consciousness 
that  this  was  thought  of  her,  made  her  so. 

She  was  as  surprised  as  the  rest  of  the 
family,  therefore,  when  in  the  spring  after 
Kittie's  marriage  an  invitation  came  from 
an  Aunt  Susan  for  her  to  spend  the  summer 
with  her  by  the  sea. 

Aunt  Susan  was  rich,  childish,  and  peculiar. 
She  was  spasmodically  devoted  to  her  nieces, 
whom  she  often  embarrassed  by  presenting 
them  with,  gifts,  coupled  with  the  condition 
that  they  should  wear  them  just  as  they 
were.  She  had  been  very  fond  of  Kittie, 
but  their  friendship  foundered  on  this  rock: 
Kittie  absolutely  refused  to  accept  a  cinna- 
mon-brown silk,  made  in  a  by-gone  fashion. 

"  I  wore  her  blue  flannel  bathing-dress," 
said  Kittie,  "  though  it  went  three  times 
around  me  and  trailed  behind ;  I  made  a 
fool  of  myself  in  her  cameo  ear-rings,  which 
were  quite  large  enough  for  ash-receivers  ; 
and  I  pranced  around  in  her  old  seal-skin 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALL  At  AN.  195 

jacket,  when  it  had  grown  just  the  color  of 
a  yellow  dog  in  the  back  ;  but  I  drew  the  line 
at  that  cinnamon  silk.  It  would  really  have 
been  a  crime  to  wear  that !  " 

So  Aunt  Susan  had  packed  her  trunks  in 
high  dudgeon  and  departed,  and  had  never 
taken  any  notice  of  her  nieces  since. 

She  did  not  come  to  the  wedding,  although 
Kittie  wrote  her  a  very  sweet  little  note,  to 
which  she  merely  returned  the  following 
lines :  — 

"  MARCH  i . 

If  within  four  days  I  should  happen  to  hear  that 
you  would  like  that  excellent  and  desirable  brown 
silk  dress  in  your  trousseau,  it  will  give  me  much 
pleasure  to  bring  it  to  your  wedding. 

"March  4.     P.  S.     I  am  not  coming." 

"Well,  that's  an  end  of  Aunt  Susan," 
laughed  Kittie.  "  How  I  should  like  to  have 
seen  her  watching  the  post  for  my  cinnamon 
recantation !  " 

Nothing  had  been  heard  from  her  since ; 
but  now  she  voluntarily  broke  the  silence 
and  wrote  to  Nellie.  She  was  going  to  Sea 
Cliff  for  the  summer,  and  would  like  Nellie 
to  go  with  her. 

"Sea  Cliff  is  a   very  nice  place,    Nellie," 


196  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

said  her  mother ;  "  not  very  large  or  gay, 
but  some  of  the  nicest  people  go  there,  —  old 
families  who  have  gone  there  for  years.  You 
will  have  all  Kittie's  things  to  wear,  and 
Aunt  Susan  is  good  and  kind  in  spite  of  her 
peculiarities.  I  don't  see  why  you  should  n't 
have  a  very  pleasant  summer." 

Nellie  went  up  to  her  own  room,  a  sudden 
startling  thought  shining  in  her  face. 

Why  shouldn't  she  go,  as  Kittie  would 
have  gone? 

Why  not  leave  her  old  self  with  her  old 
dresses  at  home?  Why  not  see  for  once  if 
she  could  n't  be  bright  and  charming  and 
lovable  too? 

We  all  of  us  have  sometimes  a  wild  desire 
to  get  away  from  every  one  who  has  ever 
known  us,  and  begin  all  over  again.  It 
seems  as  if  then  we  could  strike  out  on  a 
new  line,  could  do  and  say  the  thing  that 
now  we  cannot  do  or  say,  because  we  are 
hampered  by  our  own  personal  traditions. 

This  was  the  desire  that  filled  Nellie  Tall- 
man's  heart,  —  to  get  away  from  herself  and 
play  at  being  some  one  else. 

"I  will  be  like  Kittie,"  she  thought;  and 
her  heart  beat  more  quickly  at  the  idea. 
"  Nobody  knows  me ;  nobody  will  be  sur- 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  197 

prised.  I  know  all  Kittie's  ways;  I  have 
all  her  dresses.  Why,  it  will  be  exactly  like 
private  theatricals !  "  She  grew  more  and 
more  excited  as  she  dwelt  upon  her  plan. 

She  went  around  the  house  the  week 
before  her  departure  in  a  state  of  dazed 
expectancy. 

"  I  think  I  feel  just  like  a  chrysalis  before 
it  turns  into  a  butterfly,"  she  thought.  She 
packed  Kittie's  pretty  things,  with  an  entirely 
different  feeling  from  that  she  had  had  about 
them  at  first  Now,  they  seemed  merely  so 
many  stage  properties  in  the  little  drama 
she  was  going  to  act. 

She  had  on  a  blue  travelling-dress  of  her 
sister's,  when  she  said  good-by.  Her  mother 
kissed  her.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  how  like 
Kittie  you  look  in  that  dress  !  " 

The  girl  laughed  nervously  as  she  got  into 
the  carriage. 

"  The  play  has  begun,"  she  thought;  "  the 
play  has  begun." 

Aunt  Susan  eyed  her  sharply  when  she 
arrived. 

"  You  are  more  like  Kittie  than  I  ex- 
pected," she  said  indignantly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Nellie ;  "  I  am  like  her, 
and  I  hope  to  be  more  so." 


198  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  for  a 
few  seconds.  Aunt  Susan  measured  her 
strength  against  this  new  niece  and  found  it 
but  weakness ;  but  she  was  a  woman  who 
could  retreat  in  good  order,  when  she  did 
retreat. 

"Well,  Kittie  was  a  nice  girl,"  she  said 
placidly,  and  Nellie  was  so  astonished  that 
she  was  silent. 

There  were  not  many  people  at  Sea  Cliff 
when  they  arrived,  but  the  hotel  rapidly 
filled.  Nellie  had  very  little  trouble  in  her 
self-imposed  role.  Either  she  was  helped  by 
that  "moral  support"  of  which  we  are  all 
conscious  when  particularly  well  dressed  ;  or 
the  difference  between  herself  and  her  sister 
was  less  than  she  imagined ;  or  it  was  as  she 
had  at  first  fancied,  —  a  part  of  Kittie's  per- 
sonality went  with  her  clothes;  but,  at  all 
events,  she  knew  she  was  like  her,  —  knew 
that  in  a  hundred  little  tricks  of  speech  and 
manners  she  was  more  like  Kittie  than  like 
her  old  self.  She  began  to  be  popular, 
and  the  knowledge  that  people  liked  her 
carried  her  forward  with  fresh  enthusiasm, 
and  made  her  in  reality  more  charming  than 
she  had  ever  been. 

She  knew,  however,  that  all  her  successes 


THE  MIDDLE   MISS   TALLMAN.  199 

so  far  had  been  small  ones,  and  she  looked 
forward  to  the  first  large  dance  which  was 
given  at  the  hotel  as  a  sort  of  trial-trip  for 
her  new  wings. 

Would  she  really  be  a  belle  like  Kittie? 

She  was  in  a  perfect  tremble  of  excitement 
as  she  dressed,  and  her  spirits  rose,  as  she 
pictured  to  herself  the  delights  of  dancing 
with  many  partners,  of  being  surrounded  by 
admirers,  of  having,  in  a  word,  that  "  good 
time  "  so  dear  to  every  girl ;  and  then  her 
spirits  sank  as  she  thought  of  herself,  alone, 
unnoticed  in  a  corner,  with  no  one  to  speak 
to,  or  care  about  her. 

Oh,  is  it  a  good  or  a  sad  thing,  that  noth- 
ing, —  neither  deep  sorrows  nor  great  joys, 
can  ever  make  a  woman's  heart  beat  again 
as  a  young  girl's  does  on  the  eve  of  a 
ball? 

She  went  into  Aunt  Susan's  room,  after  she 
was  all  ready.  That  amiable  person  looked 
at  her  critically. 

"  You  are  charming,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"  Here,  I  want  you  to  wear  these." 

Nellie  turned  cold.  It  might  be  a  pair  of 
arctics  or  a  Shaker  bonnet.  She  felt  it  was 
cruel  of  Aunt  Susan  to  spring  one  of  her 
surprises  upon  her  at  just  this  crisis.  But 


200  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

when  the  old  lady  turned  and  clasped  around 
her  neck  a  beautiful  string  of  pearls,  the 
tears  came  to  Nellie's  eyes,  and  she  did  what 
no  one  had  done  to  Aunt  Susan  in  many  a 
long  year,  —  she  threw  her  arms  around  her 
neck  and  kissed  her. 

"  How  good  you  are  !  "  she  said ;  "  how 
dear  and  good  !  " 

When  she  went  into  the  ball-room,  her 
heart  was  still  full  of  Aunt  Susan's  kindness  ; 
and  she  was  so  busy  finding  a  seat  for  her 
near  people  that  she  liked,  that  she  quite 
forgot  about  herself,  and  not  until  she  was 
half  through  with  her  first  dance  did  she 
realize  that  this  was  the  first  ball  she  had 
ever  been  to  in  Kittie's  character. 

Well,  it  was  certainly  very  pleasant  to  be 
Kittie. 

It  seemed  easy,  too,  to  look  bright  and 
pleased  as  Kittie  used,  and  to  say  the  little 
frothy  silly  things  that  Kittie  used  to  say. 

She  was  surprised  that  it  was  so  easy,  and 
astonished  at  her  own  success. 

"What  would  they  say  at  home,  if  they 
could  see  me  ?  "  she  thought.  "  They  would 
not  believe  it  possible  that  it  is  I !  I  feel 
just  like  Cinderella.  If  everything  should 
change,  and  I  should  drop  my  slipper  and 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.          2OI 

go  running  out  of  the  room,  I  should  n't  be 
a  bit  surprised  !  " 

She  had  plenty  of  partners,  for  she  danced 
well,  —  not  with  the  air  of  conferring  a  favor, 
nor  yet  of  receiving  one;  but  as  if 'it 
were  a  mutual  pleasure  which  she  heartily 
enjoyed. 

Before  the  ball  was  half  over  she  realized 
that  she  had  been  a  great  success ;  not  even 
Kittie  had  ever  had  a  more  triumphant 


evening ! 


She  could  scarcely  believe  it;  it  seemed 
so  incredible,  so  like  a  miracle. 

But  it  was  a  simple  miracle,  after  all.  We 
have  all  met  people  who,  for  some  inexpli- 
cable reason,  appear  at  their  worst  when 
surrounded  by  their  families.  Once  get 
them  away,  and  they  are  entirely  different 
people. 

Nellie  had  developed  more  slowly  than  her 
older  sister.  Before  she  had  entirely  emerged 
from  the  schoolroom,  Kittie  had  command, 
as  it  were,  of  the  entire  social  field.  She 
might  have  won  her  share  of  recognition  and 
appreciation  even  then,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Lilian. 

But  Lilian  was  tall  and  graceful,  with  a 
really  beautiful  face.  She  was  strongly  pic- 


202  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

turesque  and  individual,  —  a  girl  who  instantly 
challenged  attention,  no  matter  among  how 
many  she  appeared. 

What  wonder  that  the  current  of  popular 
approval  ran  swiftly  from  Kittie  to  Lilian, 
and  could  not  stop  half-way  for  inferior 
attractions? 

.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  all  this  was  changed. 
The  environment  was  favorable  to  her.  She 
felt  like  a  different  person,  simply  because 
she  was  breathing  a  different  atmosphere. 
Everything  around  her  aided  her  in  the  con- 
scious effort  she  was  making  to  appear  as 
she  had  never  done  before. 

She  was  walking  with  her  partner  after  a 
waltz. 

"  Tom  Romeyn  came  to-day,"  he  said ; 
"  I  just  saw  him  come  into  the  room." 

"And  who  is  Tom  Romeyn  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Is  it  better  never  to  have  been  born  than 
not  to  know  him?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  answered,  "  for  I  was 
only  introduced  myself  to-day;  but  he  is 
that  awfully  rich  Mr.  Romeyn  of  New  York, 
the  one  who  owns  the  yacht,  and  drives  the 
brake.  There  he  goes  now." 

Nellie  looked  after  him  calmly. 

"  He  ought  to  be  labelled,  if  he  is  all  that," 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  203 

she  said ;  "  I  should  never  have  suspected 
it." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  will  be  known  fast  enough 
without  a  label.  That  sort  of  light  is  never 
hid  under  a  bushel.  It  blazes  like  an  elec- 
tric light,  and  quite  puts  out  our  little 
candles.  I  'd  better  dance  with  you,  Miss 
Tallman,  while  I  can  ;  "  and  so  they  started 
again. 

Quite  late  in  the  evening  the  same  young 
man  came  to  Nellie,  as  she  stood  for  a  minute 
near  her  aunt. 

"  Mr.  Romeyn  has  asked  to  meet  you,"  he 
said.  "  May  I  bring  him  up?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Nellie,  flushed  with  the 
triumph  of  her  evening;  what  did  one  mil- 
lionnaire  more  or  less  matter? 

He  returned  in  a  moment,  with  a  tall, 
rather  English-looking  man,  who  was  duly 
introduced,  and  who  asked, — 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  waltz,  Miss  Tallman?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  said  Nellie,  showing  him 
her  card,  which  was  all  filled,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  few  last  dances. 

"  Here  are  two  waltzes  at  the  end,"  he 
persisted :  "  may  n't  I  have  one  or  both  of 
those  ?  " 

Nellie  looked  at  Aunt  Susan. 


204  THE  MIDDLE  MISS    TALLMAN. 

"  It  will  make  it  later  than  you  want  to 
stay,  I  *m  afraid ;  "  and  then  before  Aunt 
Susan  could  speak,  she  said,  — 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Romeyn.  They  say  the 
good  things  of  this  life  always  come  too  late, 
and  so  have  you."' 

"  But  only  for  this  evening,"  he  answered. 
"  There  will  be  other  evenings  and  other 
waltzes." 

"  I  don't  know,"  laughed  Nellie.  "  '  Who 
knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ?  ' ' 

Just  then  the  music  struck  up  afresh,  and 
some  one  came  to  claim  her.  Mr.  Romeyn 
looked  after  her.  She  was  very  pretty  in 
her  fresh  white  tulle.  Her  cheeks  were  as 
red  as  the  roses  on  her  dress,  and  her  eyes 
danced  with  the  enjoyment  she  was  having. 

In  a  world  where  people  so  soon  learn  to 
be  faded  and  to  "  take  their  pleasures  sadly," 
there  is  always  something  refreshing  in  the 
spontaneous  delight  of  a  young  girl.  Her 
healthy,  natural  capacity  for  gayety  gives 
almost  as  much  pleasure  to  others  as  to 
herself. 

One  great  secret  of  Nellie's  success,  not 
only  at  her  first  ball  but  all  through  her 
summer,  was  her  own  hearty  enjoyment  of 
it. 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  2O$ 

She  was  not  indifferent  or  bored,  neither 
was  she  eager  or  anxious  to  command  atten- 
tion. She  was  simply  very  glad  that  she 
was  liked,  and  she  showed  her  pleasure  in  a 
natural,  delightful  way. 

She  enjoyed  the  sea;  she  liked  to  go  sail- 
ing and  blue-fishing ;  she  was  fond  of  row- 
ing and  tennis.  In  a  word,  she  was  a  jolly 
companion,  with  the  rare  quality  of  cama- 
raderie, and  —  always  ready. 

As  the  summer  wore  on,  she  had  more 
than  one  admirer,  who  warmed  into  a  lover. 
She  managed  them  all  as  she  thought  Kittie 
would  have  done.  She  was  frank  and  friendly 
with  them,  and  laughed  at  them  a  little,  —  not 
enough  to  hurt  their  feelings,  but  just  enough 
to  scare  away  their  sentiment ;  but  if  they 
positively  refused  to  have  their  feelings 
spared,  she  told  them  the  truth  honestly  and 
simply. 

These  little  affairs  were  very  sweet  to  her, 
—  not  that  she  was  vain  or  heartless,  but  she 
had  always  had  a  very  low  opinion  of  her- 
self, and  it  had  never  seemed  to  her  that  any 
man  would  want  to  marry  her.  When,  there- 
fore, she  found  not  one,  but  two  or  three  who 
paid  her  that  high  compliment,  her  surprise 
deepened  into  a  glow  of  warm  pleasure. 


206  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,"  she  thought,  "  there 
is  something  about  me  that  will  be  worth  the 
giving  to  the  man  I  love." 

She  questioned  herself  closely,  as  to  whether 
she  had  been  perfectly  true  with  her  lovers, 
whether  she  had  ever  led  them  on  by  look  or 
word  ;  and,  while  her  memory  acquitted  her, 
her  conscience  accused  her,  because  she 
knew  that  she  had  made  herself  just  as  at- 
tractive as  possible,  all  the  time. 

"  I  have  only  been  like  Kittie,"  she  pleaded. 

"  You  have  never  had  a  love-affair  before," 
answered  Conscience,  grimly. 

She  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Romeyn,  who 
seemed  to  have  the  invaluable  faculty  of 
always  appearing  when  he  was  wanted,  and 
never  when  .he  was  n't. 

He  was  much  courted  and  flattered  by 
many  of  the  people  in  the  hotel,  —  so  much 
so,  in  fact,  that  Nellie,  with  a  sort  of  healthy 
reaction,  had  been  rather  indifferent  and  dis- 
tant to  him  ;  but  he  met  all  her  little  re- 
buffs in  such  a  pleasant,  manly  way,  and 
laughed  so  frankly  at  her  sharp  speeches, 
that  he  rather  robbed  her  wit  of  its  stings. 
There  is  no  fun  in  chaffing  a  person  who 
enjoys  being  chaffed.  He  was  never  espe- 
cially devoted;  and  yet,  if  she  had  watched 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  2O/ 

and  counted  closely,  she  would  have  found 
that  she  was  very  often  with  him,  and  that 
those  were  the  best  of  all  the  times  she  had. 


Nellie  was  going  crabbing  one  morn- 
ing, with  the  three  little  Watson  boys.  The 
boys  had  their  bait  ready,  and  were  sit- 
ting on  the  piazza  waiting  for  her,  when  she 
came  out  Mr.  Romeyn  sat  there,  too, 
smoking  a  cigar  and  reading  a  paper.  He 
threw  away  the  one  and  put  down  the  other 
as  Nellie  appeared. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Tallman,"  he  cried,  "  where  are 
you  going?  Mayn't  I  go  too  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Nellie,  "  you  're  not  invited. 
This  is  a  crabbing  party  to  Spring  Beach, 
and  we  have  only  two  nets  and  two  lines. 
Archie  and  I  are  going  to  crab,  and  Willie 
and  Rob  are  going  to  grab.  You  see  plainly 
that  you  'd  be  — 

"  A  fifth  wheel,"  he  suggested. 

"  That 's  what  I  meant,"  said  Nellie,  laugh- 
ing; "  but  I  'm  glad  you  said  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  going,"  said  Mr.  Romeyn, 
with  decision.  "  Fifth  wheels  are  very  useful 
if  anything  happens  to  one  of  the  original 
four ;  and  in  the  mean  time  they  need  n't 
work,  you  know." 


208  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

"  Boys,  shall  we  let  him  go  ? "  appealed 
Nellie. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Archie  Watson,  "  he  won't 
be  much  in  the  way." 

"  Besides,  he  says  he 's  going  anyway," 
put  in  Willie. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Nellie,  "  let  the  proces- 
sion start;  "  but  she  went  ahead  with  Archie, 
and  left  Mr.  Romeyn  to  follow  through  the 
pine  woods  with  the  younger  boys. 

The  water  at  Spring  Beach  was  so  very 
shallow  that  the  little  boys  took  off  their 
shoes  and  stockings  and  waded  in.  Nellie 
and  Archie  took  their  positions  on  the  bank 
with  their  rods  and  lines. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  asked 
Nellie  over  her  shoulder  of  Mr.  Romeyn. 

"  I  'm  going  up  into  Crows'  Nest  to  watch 
you  and  smoke  another  cigar,"  he  said. 

Crows'  Nest  was  a  big  platform,  built  in 
the  spreading  branches  of  a  large  tree.  The 
tree  was  so  near  the  lake  that  the  balcony  it 
held  hung  almost  over  the  water.  It  was  a 
very  comfortable,  shady  place  to  sit  in. 
Nellie  thought  of  it  with  a  little  sigh,  for  it 
was  quite  hot  down  by  the  water,  and  if 
crabs  don't  bite,  crabbing  is  rather  tiresome. 
But  they  bit  this  morning. 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  2OQ 

"  There !  "  cried  Willie,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  "you  got  one,  Miss  Nellie  !  Draw  him 
in  gently.  I  can  see  him ;  he 's  a  big  fellow, 
too.  Now !  "  and  with  a  sudden  splash  he 
brought  his  net  down  under  the  luckless 
crab,  and  landed  him,  kicking  in  every  leg, 
and  deeply  regretting  his  own  greediness. 
Willie  missed  the  next ;  but  they  continued 
to  bite,  and  Nellie  grew  quite  excited. 

She  had  forgotten  all  about  her  hidden 
spectator  when  a  voice  from  the  tree  said  :  — 

"There,  Miss  Tallman,  that's  your  tenth. 
It  will  be  simply  inhuman  to  catch  any  more. 
Besides,  you  are  tired;  come  up  here  and 
rest  yourself." 

Nellie  hesitated  ;  and  just  then  there  was  a 
scream  from  Rob,  who  had  moved  farther  up 
the  beach  with  Archie.  A  crab  had  nipped 
his  toe.  He  hobbled  ashore,  and  Nellie  ran 
to  see  if  she  could  help  him. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  home,"  said  Rob,  who 
was  only  nine.  "  It  hurts  terribly ;  it  really 
does." 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  which  he  was 
trying  to  keep  back. 

"  Can't  he  carry  the  crabs  home  ? "  sug- 
gested Nellie,  feeling  that  it  would  be  some 
balm  for  the  wounded  sportsman  to  return 
H 


210  THE  MIDDLE  MISS    TALLMAN. 

with  plenty  of  game.  So  the  crabs  were 
strung  together,  and  Rob  set  off,  limping  up 
the  road. 

"  Come,"  said  the  voice  from  the  tree, 
"  three  wheels  are  as  bad  as  five ;  you  'd 
better  turn  the  affair  into  a  two-wheeled  gig, 
and  come  up  here." 

"  I  am  rather  warm,"  she  said ;  and  she 
slowly  walked  to  Crows'  Nest. 

Mr.  Romeyn  looked  at  her  with  undis- 
guised admiration  as  she  came  up. 

"  How  warm  and  —  forgive  me  —  how 
pretty  you  look !  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  took  off  her  hat,  and  leaned  against  a 
big  limb  of  the  tree. 

"  I  cannot  open  the  conversation  with  a 
repartee,". she  said;  "I  really  am  too  tired. 
I  think  that  crabbing  carried  too  far  may 
become  a  vice." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  after  a 
little  pause.  "  I  have  wanted  to  have  a  talk 
with  you  ever  so  many  days,  but  you  are 
never  alone.  I  have  a  confession  to  make,  — 
a  terrible  one.  Did  you  ever  have  a  lord  come 
to  you  and  own  up  that  he  was  a  barber  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "  I  never  did.  I 
have  known  very  few  lords,  or  barbers 
either." 


THE  MIDDLE   MISS    TALLMAN.  211 

"  Well,  figuratively  speaking,"  he  continued, 
"  I  am  both.  But  seriously,  Miss  Tallman,  I 
want  to  tell  you  something.  You  will  be 
surprised,  and  perhaps  indignant  I  'm  an 
impostor,  a  fraud,  and  a  delusion.  I  Ve  been 
posing  all  summer  as  Tom  Romeyn,  the  mil- 
lionnaire.  Well,  I  'm  not,  —  I  'm  only  his 
cousin.  We  have  the  same  name,  but  there 's 
a  difference  of  nobody  knows  how  many 
hundred  thousand  dollars  in  our  income.  He 
has  gone  to  Norway  this  summer,  andj  I  had 
no  idea  of  stepping  into  his  place  here.  In 
fact,  when  I  first  came,  I  did  n't  know  that  I 
had ;  I  only  thought  that  people  were  won- 
derfully kind  and  polite;  but  pretty  soon  it 
dawned  on  me  that  it  was  all  deference 
to  my  supposed  millions.  You've  no  idea 
how  delightful  every  one  finds  me ;  my  very 
faults  look  so  well  gilded.  Of  course  I 
did  n't  intend  to  keep  up  the  delusion,  but 
people  won't  believe  anything  else.  Nothing 
is  so  hard  to  stamp  out  as  a  popular  impres- 
sion. I  have  said  over  and  over  again  that 
I  thought  I  was  being  taken  for  my  cousin  ; 
but  it  was  no  use.  One  hates  to  be  forever 
intruding  his  own  affairs  and  the  number  of 
his  dollars  on  other  people's  attention,  and 
after  a  while  I  grew  tired  of  contradicting 


212  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

them.  If  they  would  believe  I  was  my 
cousin,  why,  let  them.  I  never  affirmed  it ; 
but  I  gave  up  trying  to  deny  it  to  every 
fresh  batch  of  people  whom  I  met. 

"  There !  —  that  is  my  confession,  Miss 
Tallman.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
me?" 

The  flush  had  faded  from  Nellie's  face 
She  looked  pale  and  frightened.  For  the 
first  time  it  rushed  across  her  that  perhaps 
she  had  done  a  wrong  thing  in  trying  to  be 
like  Kittie.  This  man  felt  guilty  because  he 
had  unconsciously  been  taken  for  another, 
and  treated  as  if  he  were  that  other.  She  had 
consciously  and  deliberately  done  her  best  to 
clothe  herself  in  another's  character.  She 
had  tried  •  to  steal  every  charm  and  grace  of 
manner  from  Kittie,  and  wear  them  as  she 
had  worn  her  dresses. 

It  seemed  to  her  suddenly  that  she  had 
done  a  monstrous  thing. 

Mr.  Romeyn  watched  her  startled  face. 

"  Do  you  care  so  much  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
hard  voice.  "  I  am  not  a  pauper ;  I  have 
enough  for  all  the  comforts  and  most  of  the 
luxuries  of  life  ;  only  —  I  am  not  Tom  Ro- 
meyn the  millionnaire." 

"  Care  !  "  she  exclaimed,  turning  suddenly. 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  21$ 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  I  was  not  thinking.  I  am 
sorry  for  you  ;  I  wish  you  were  your  cou- 
sin, if  it  would  make  you  any  happier,  — 
but  to  me  —  what  can  it  matter  ?  " 

She  spoke  brokenly.  She  had  a  sense  of 
trouble  in  the  air.  She  wished  she  had  gone 
home,  or  stayed  on  the  beach  with  the  little 
boys. 

"  There  is  something  else  I  want  to  say," 
he  went  on,  looking  at  her  steadily.  "  Do 
you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  The  sense  of  her 
deceit,  the  feeling  that  her  very  friendship 
with  this  man  was  formed  on  a  sham,  a' 
cheat,  made  her  miserable.  She  could 
scarcely  listen  to  him. 

"  I  told  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  did  not 
want  you  to  be  deceived  about  me  in  any 
way  ;  ^because  I  hoped  —  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  this  now  —  but  I  had  hoped  that  some 
time  you  would  love  me." 

Nellie  turned  her  head  away;  her  cheeks 
grew  very  red.  She  did  not  answer,  but  the 
terrified  look  came  over  her  face  again,  —  a 
look  as  if  she  were  brought  face  to  face  with 
an  unexpected  and  terrible  thing. 

Tom  Romeyn  watched  her,  feeling  as  if  he 
had  received  a  blow  full  in  the  face.  It  was 


214  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

not  that  she  did  not  love  him,  —  he  had 
hardly  expected  that  now — but  that  his 
confession  had  so  plainly  been  a  great  dis- 
appointment and  surprise  to  her. 

He  was  not  a  very  young  man,  and  she  had 
seemed  to  him  a  very  true,  honest  woman. 
He  looked  at  her,  and  wondered  if  her  heart 
could  be  as  shallow  and  sordid  as  it  seemed, 
and  if  it  were,  why  God  had  joined  it  to  so 
sweet  a  face. 

The  voices  of  the  children  floated  down  to 
them  from  up  the  beach;  but  for  that  it  was 
very  still. 

•  Nellie  looked  out  between  the  leaves  at 
the  shining  water,  —  the  tears  were  shining 
as  brightly  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  Kittie,"  she 
thought;  "and  I  —  oh,  how  can  I  ever  tell 
him?  How  can  I  make  him  understand?" 

"  Miss  Tallman,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  hard, 
formal  way,  "  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  sorry 
we  have  had  this  talk.  It  is  best  that  we 
should  understand  each  other.  If  I  were  a 
richer  man  —  " 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Nellie,  turning  her  tear- 
ful, flashing  eyes  upon  him.  "  What  do  I 
care  how  much  you  are  worth?  It  is  not 
that !  " 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  21$ 

The  clouds  fell  from  his  face. 

"  It  makes  no  difference  to  you,  then?"  he 
cried  ;  "  I  may  still  —  " 

"  Oh,"  she  interrupted  him,  "  it  is  an 
insult  to  ask  such  a  question  !  " 

His  heart  leaped  within  him. 

"  Oh !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  so. 
You  see  it  is  n't  as  if  I  had  really  deceived 
you.  I  am  just  what  I  have  seemed,  and 
you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and  have — at 
least  I  thought  so — liked  me.  If  you  have 
liked  me,  —  well,  a  little,  —  I  was  sure  this 
mistake  about  the  money  would  make  no 
difference." 

Nellie  shook  her  head  mournfully.  Every 
word  he  spoke  showed  her,  only  too  plainly, 
the  wrong  she  had  done. 

"  And  yet,"  he  continued,  "  it  seemed  right 
to  tell  you.  And  now,"  he  added  cheerfullyf 
though  there  was  a  suspicion  of  a  break  in 
his  voice,  —  "  now,  you  like  me,  —  a  little,  — 
don't  you?" 

Nellie  looked  at  him  bravely,  though 
sadly. 

"  I   like  you  very,  very  much,"  she  said. 

"Enough,  so  that  —  oh,  Nellie,  could  you 
learn  to  like  me  —  to  love  me  —  enough  to 
marry  me?  " 


2l6  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

"  Miss  Nellie,"  cried  a  young  voice,  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  that  led  up  to  Crows'  Nest, 
"  are  you  ready  to  go  home?  " 

Mr.  Romeyn  stepped  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  "  Archie,"  he  said,  "  Miss  Tallman 
is  n't  rested  yet.  I  will  bring  her  home  with 
me.  Don't  wait." 

"  All  right,"  cried  the  boyish  voice,  "  we 
got  twenty-nine  in  all." 

They  heard  him  whistling,  as  he  walked  up 
the  road. 

It  was  very  still  in  Crows'  Nest 

Suddenly  Nellie  laughed  hysterically. 
"  Did  he  say  twenty-nine  crabs  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  it  is  all  so  dreadful !  " 

Mr.  Romeyn  laughed  a  little,  too.  He 
took  her  hand.  "What  is  so  dreadful?"  he 
asked,  "  the  crabs,  or  the  interruption,  or 
the  being  asked  questions,  or  what  ?  " 

"It  isn't  that  —  those,"  she  said  incoher- 
ently, while  the  fingers  of  the  hand  he  held 
closed  convulsively ;  4<  it  's  —  Oh,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say.  It's  /,  who  have 
deceived  you  ;  it's  /  who  am  not  what  I 
pretend  to  be !  I  am—  Oh,  I  don't 
know  what  I  am !  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement;  then  he 
laughed.  "  Have  you  been  masquerading  in 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  21 7 

some  one  else's  character,  too?"  he  asked. 
"  This  is  too  ridiculous  ;  it 's  like  the  last 
act  of  one  of  Gilbert's  operas.  Who  are 
you,  any  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  laugh  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  it  does  n't 
seem  funny  to  me  at  all.  Perhaps  if  it  had 
happened  to  any  one  else,  it  might;  but 
things  are  n't  so  funny  when  you  're  in  them 
yourself." 

"I  won't  laugh,"  he  said  gravely;  and  he 
stroked  softly  the  nervous  little  hand  that  he 
still  held.  "  I  won't  laugh  at  all.  Now,  tell 
me  the  whole  of  the  little  story." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  can  never  make  you  under- 
stand," she  said ;  "  but  I  must  tell  you.  It 
is  n't  right  not  to.  You  see  there  were  three 
of  us  at  home,  Kittie,  —  oh,  I  wish  you  could 
see  Kittie !  No,  I  don't  —  I  don't  wish  it 
at  all,"  she  added  hastily. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  Kittie  is  so  pretty  and  bright 
and  sweet.  Every  one  loves  Kittie.  She  is 
all  I  have  tried  to  be,  and  so  much  more! 
She  's  the  original,  and  I  'm  only  the  copy." 

He  gazed  at  her  blankly. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  cried ;  "  I 
knew  you  would  n't !  Then  there  was  Lilian," 
she  went  on  hastily;  "  and  Lilian  is  so  beau- 


21 8  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

tiful.  It  is  good  just  to  look  at  her.  I  was 
between  these ;  I  was  n't  charming,  I  was  n't 
beautiful,  I  was  n't  anything.  I  was  just  the 
middle  Miss  Tallman." 

"The  middle  Miss  Tallman,"  he  repeated 
slowly. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  she  asked 
him  sharply. 

"  I  am  trying  to  follow  you,"  he  said;  "  it 
—  forgive  me  —  it  is  just  a  little  hard." 

He  looked  at  her  a  minute. 

"Must  you  tell  it  all  to  me?"  he  asked. 
"  It  pains  you  so,  and  I  —  I  don't  care  who 
you  are,  or  what  you  have  done.  I  love 
you,  I  want  to  hear  you  say  that  you  will 
love  me.  That  is  the  first  thing.  After 
that  we  can  explain  all  these  other  things, 
and  these  terrible  deceptions." 

She  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  that  is  not  the  first 
thing  at  all !  How  can  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you,  when  it  is  not  I  that  you  love  ;  when 
you  would  never  have  cared  for  me  —  for  the 
real  me  at  all ;  whe#  you  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Kittie's  ways  and  dresses?" 

"  Kittie's  dresses  ?  "  he  said  faintly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  Kittie's  dresses.  I  have 
worn  them  all  summer.  This  is  one  now." 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS    TALLMAN.  219 

She  pulled  out  a  fold  of  her  overskirt,  and 
shook  it  at  him  in  a  tragic  manner. 

He  bent  his  head  and  examined  it  criti- 
cally; but  he  did  not  speak.  He  had  decided 
it  was  better  she  should  tell  her  story  without 
interruptions. 

"I  wanted  to  be  like  Kittie,  this  summer," 
she  said,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  if  people  would  like  me  and  admire 
me,  as  they  did  her.  I  came  away  with  Aunt 
Susan,  where  no  one  knew  me,  where  no 
one  would  notice  that  I  was  different.  I  had 
all  Kittie's  things,  —  she  sent  them  to  me 
when  she  went  into  mourning;  and  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  I  put  on  her  manner  with  her 
dresses.  I  have  been  like  another  girl.  I 
think  people  have  liked  me ;  I  know  I  have 
had  more  attention  and  been  more  of  a  belle 
than  ever  in  my  life  before.  Other  men  have 
told  me  that  they  loved  me,  and  have  called 
me  charming  and  attractive.  It  has  been  so 
nice  to  be  liked,  and  the  more  I  have  been 
like  Kittie,  the  more  they  have  liked  me. 

"  But  I  feel  now  thajt  it  has  all  been  a  part 
I  have  played.  When  I  leave  Sea  Cliff  and 
go  home,  I  shall  be  just  what  I  was  before. 
I  shall  be  quiet  and  reserved  and  self-con- 
scious ;  and  even  if  I  wear  Kittie's  clothes, 


22O  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

they  will  get  to  look  like  me  by  that  time, 
and  not  like  Kittie.  I  shall  be  the  middle 
Miss  Tallman  again,  and  you  would  never 
have  cared  for  her,  I  am  sure." 

She  spoke  quickly,  with  a  little  tremor  in 
her  voice.  Her  hand  rested  limply  and 
unresistingly  in  his. 

"  Did  no  one  ever  care  for  her  ?  "  he  asked 
gently. 

"  Oh,  people  always  meant  to  be  kind,  I 
think,  but  don't  you  see?  —  they  had  n't  time. 
It  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  shut  in. 
People  can't  go  around  with  knives  opening 
social  oysters ;  society  is  in  too  great  a  hurry 
for  that.  I  have  only  been  out  two  winters, 
and  perhaps  I  did  n't  get  a  good  start.  I 
don't  know  what  was  the  matter,  —  not,"  she 
added  with  dignity,  "  that  I  ever  behaved  like 
an  idiot  or  a  dumb  person.  I  have  n't  been 
anything  so  very  dreadful ;  only  I  am  sure, 
quite  sure,  you  would  never  have  loved  me 
in  my  own  character." 

"There  is  one  tiling  I  want  to  ask  you," 
he  said  quietly.  "You  say  that  you  have 
had  other  lovers  this  summer  ;  did  you  tell 
them  all  this  that  you  have  told  me?" 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "  I  did  n't  have  to. 
I  just  told  them  I  did  n't  care  for  them." 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS    TALLMAN.  221 

"  But  you  have  to  tell  me  because  you  do 
care  for  me?  Is  that  it,  my  darling?" 

The  color  leaped  to  her  cheeks. 

"You  do  love  me,"  he  persisted  eagerly; 
"  and  you  have  told  me  this  because  you 
would  not  deceive  me?" 

She  avoided  looking  at  him. 

"  If  I  were  sure  that  you  knew  me,  and 
loved  me  as  I  really  am,  I  — "  she  began, 
and  then  stopped.  "  But  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  You  can't  love  me.  I  feel  as  if 
you  had  never  really  seen  me.  It  would  be 
wrong  to  take  advantage  of  the  love  I  have 
gained  by  deceit.  It  would  be  wicked  to 
marry  you." 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  putting  his 
arms  around  her,  "  I  will  never  ask  you  to 
do  anything  you  think  is  wrong;  but  if  I 
can  prove  to  you  that  I  love  you,  no  matter 
whether  you  have  called  yourself  Kittie  or 
Nellie,  —  no  matter  what  you  have  tried 
to  be  or  really  are,  —  if  I  can  make  you 
feel  very  sure  of  that,  then  will  you  marry 
me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly;   "  but  —  " 

"  There  are  no  '  buts '  about  it,"  he 
exclaimed  triumphantly;  and  bent  his  head 
to  kiss  her. 


222  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

11  Oh,  no,"  she  cried,  "  you  must  n't  —  not 
yet  —  you  must  n't !  " 

But  even  while  she  resisted  he  had  kissed 
her  twice. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  could  not  help 
it." 

She  tried  to  move  away  from  him.  "  Oh," 
she  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  I  am  doing ! 
It  is  all  wrong,  all  wrong !  "  Then  she 
suddenly  started.  "  We  ought  to  go  back  ; 
it  must  be  very  late,  and  they  will  miss 
us." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"We  have  certainly  lost  our  dinner,"  he 
said  ;  "  do  you  care  ?  " 

"For  the  dinner?  No;  but  there  is  Aunt 
Susan." 

"  I  could  face  a  whole  battalion  of  Aunt 
Susans,  you  have  made  me  so  happy,"  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  you  must  n't  be  happy,"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  please  don't.  I  have  promised 
you  nothing,  nothing !  " 

She  really  believed  that  she  had  not ;  for 
though  the  woman  "  who  hesitates  is  lost," 
she  never  believes  that  she  is. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  he  said  softly;  "you 
have  promised  me  everything." 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  22$ 

They  climbed  down  from  Crows'  Nest,  and 
walked  along  silently. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  again  to-night  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  am  going  for  a 
moonlight  sail.  Besides,  I  do  not  want  to 
see  you  ;  I  want  to  think.  I  am  all  confused. 
You  make  so  little  of  what  seems  so  much  to 
me,  that  I  cannot  tell  what  is  right." 

"Will  you  be  on  the  beach  to-morrow 
morning,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  thought  a  minute.  "  Yes,"  she  said  ; 
"  you  may  meet  me  there.  I  shall  go  to  my 
favorite  place,  quite  a  way  up  the  beach,  in 
the  shadow  of  an  old  boat." 

"  Would  you  rather  go  alone,  or  may  I 
walk  down  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  go  alone." 

They  were  both  busy  with  their  own 
thoughts,  and  walked  on  in  silence. 

WThen  they  reached  the  hotel,  Nellie  went 
at  once  to  her  own  room  ;  she  felt  tired  and 
confused.  She  tried  to  think ;  but  her  mental 
vision  was  cloudy  and  obscure,  and  at  last 
she  gave  it  up  and  knocked  at  Aunt  Susan's 
door. 

Aunt  Susan  looked  at  her  keenly  and 
coldly. 


224  THE  MIDDLE  MISS    TALLA1AN. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  Crows'  Nest,  over  by 
Spring  Beach,  with  Mr.  Romeyn." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Aunt  Susan.  "  Swinging 
in  a  tree  like  two  orchids,  and  living  on  air ! 
Are  n't  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nellie,  truthfully. 

"  Well,  I  warrant  he  is,  then.  A  man  may 
postpone  his  dinner  for  his  emotions,  but  he 
does  n't  go  without  it.  He  only  eats  more 
and  later." 

Nellie  did  not  answer. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Susan,  "there's  a 
present  for  you  on  the  bed,  Nellie." 

Nellie  turned.  A  brown  linen  duster  lay 
on  the  bed.  She  took  it  up  and  examined 
it.  It  was  the  most  pronounced  kind  of  a 
duster,  with  a  cape  and  collar,  a  belt  and 
several  pockets.  It  was  a  large,  roomy  gar- 
ment, and  somewhat  wrinkled. 

Aunt  Susan  watched  her  closely.  "  I 
want  you  to  wear  it,  Nellie,"  she  said,  "just 
as  it  is." 

A  sudden  look  like  an  illumination  flashed 
over  the  girl's  face.  She  turned  to  her 
aunt. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  just  what  I 
most  want,  and  I  will  wear  it  to-morrow." 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  22$ 

Aunt  Susan  started. 

"It  is,"  continued  Nellie,  earnestly.  "I 
really  need  it,  and  I  thank  you  for  giving  it 
to  me." 

She  left  the  room,  carrying  the  homely 
garment,  and  with  the  same  look  of  high 
resolve  upon  her  face. 

Nellie  thought  long  and  earnestly  that 
night.  She  tried  to  remember  distinctly  just 
what  she  had  done,  and  to  view  every  motive 
sternly  and  critically.  She  turned  the  matter 
over  and  over  in  her  mind,  and  came  again 
and  again  to  the  same  conclusion.  She  had 
won  this  man's  love  under  false  appearances. 
It  could  only  be  a  disappointment  to  him, 
and  a  mortification  to  her,  when  he  saw  her 
in  her  true  colors. 

"  No,"  she  said  drearily  ;  "  I  have  acted 
the  little  play  I  wanted  to,  and  had  my 
pleasant  time,  and  now  I  must  bear  the  pun- 
ishment all  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  did  not 
mean  to  do  wrong,  I  only  made  a  mistake ; 
but  the  punishment  comes  all  the  same.  Oh, 
dear  !  oh,  dear  !  there  is  no  way  out!." 

But  even  while  she  thought,  her  heart 
beat  wildly ;  was  there  a  way  out  after  all? 

Aunt  Susan  was  much  surprised  when 
Nellie  appeared  on  the  piazza  the  next 


226  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

morning,  her  book  under  her  arm,  and 
the  unsightly  duster  hiding  every  trace  of 
her  pretty  dress  and  graceful  figure. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  the  beach,"  she  said, 
and  walked  quietly  away,  wearing  her  ungainly 
garment,  with  a  certain  proud  humility. 

"  Well,  what  an  idea !  "  said  Aunt  Susan. 
"  Nellie,  come  back !  "  But  Nellie  walked 
on,  apparently  unconscious  of  criticism. 

When  Aunt  Susan  had  given  her  the  duster, 
she  felt  that  her  pride  and  self-respect  were 
shattered,  and  she  accepted  it  as  if  it  had 
been  a  penitential  robe,  a  sort  of  hair-cloth 
shirt,  mortifying  the  vanity  that  had  been  so 
fostered  all  summer.  She  wished  that  it 
were  even  uglier  than  it  was.  She  took  a 
certain  grim  pleasure  in  its  ugliness. 

As  the  Florentines  in  Savonarola's  time 
gave  up  their  fine  garments  and  jewels,  and 
had  them  burned  in  the  open  street,  so  this 
girl  felt  as  if  she  wanted  to  make  a  public 
sacrifice  of  all  the  little  frivolities  which  she 
had  enjoyed  so,  and  which  had  cost  her  so 
dear. 

She  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  boat 
and  watched  the  sea.  But  she  was  not  long 
alone,  for  very  soon  she  saw  Mr.  Romeyn 
coming  toward  her.  He  saw  her,  too,  and 


THE  MIDDLE   MISS    TALLMAN.  22/ 

noticed  instantly  the  change  in  her  dress. 
In  a  second  he  fancied  that  he  understood  it. 

"  Dear  little  girl !  "  he  thought ;  "  she  has 
determined  not  to  wear  any  more  of  Kittie's 
clothes,  and  has  put  on  some  of  her  own. 
She  will  not  appear  in  borrowed  plurnage  any 
longer." 

His  heart  warmed  toward  her  as  he  recog- 
nized this  brave  little  effort  to  be  honest. 

"  Good-morning,  my  darling,"  he  said,  as 
he  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said  quickly,  "you  must  not 
call  me  that.  I  have  been  thinking  —  " 

"  So  have  I,"  he  interrupted  cheerfully, 
"  and  I  want  you  to  hear  my  thoughts 
first." 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  She  half  turned 
away  from  him.  The  duster  fitted  horribly 
over  the  shoulders,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
did  not  want  to  spare  him  or  herself  one 
obtrusive  wrinkle  ;  but  he  took  no  notice  of 
it  whatever. 

"  I  have  thought  of  you  constantly,"  he 
began ;  "  and  of  all  you  told  me  yesterday. 
As  far  as  I  understand  it,  it  is  like  this.  You 
were  a  young  girl  who  had  passed  two  win- 
ters in  society,  and  had  not  been  a  great 
social  success.  Let  us  even  say  you  were 


228  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

unattractive,  repellent,  unmagnetic.  You  had 
two  beautiful  and  charming  sisters,  who, 
between  them,  monopolized  every  one's 
attention.  You  were  shy  and  reserved,  and 
nobody  knew  how  your  heart  cried  out  for 
recognition  too ;  how  you  longed  and  thirsted 
for  a  little  sympathy  and  love.  You  were 
shut  in,  and  instead  of  breaking  your  shell,  it 
grew  harder  and  harder.  Suddenly  a  chance 
came  to  you  to  begin  all  over,  —  to  start 
among  new  people  in  an  entirely  different 
way.  You  seized  the  opportunity ;  you 
wore  your  sister's  dresses,  and  copied  her 
manners;  you  acted  a  part,  and  acted  it 
so  well  that  you  deceived  every  one,  even 
myself.  You  were  an  entirely  changed  being, 
—  another  creature,  with  nothing  in  common 
with  the  girl  that  you  had  been.  Then,  I 
met  this  lovely,  fascinating  woman,  who  was 
not  you  at  all.  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  and 
asked  her  to  marry  me.  Then  suddenly  you 
realized  how  base  and  deceitful  you  had 
been,  —  realized  that  you  could  not  tell  me 
you  loved  me,  nor  let  me  love  you,  because 
you  had  deceived  me,  had  been  untrue  to 
yourself  and  cruel  to  me  ;  and  that  if  I  mar- 
ried you  it  would  be  as  great  a  surprise  to 
me  as  if  I  should  fall  in  love  with  Galatea 


THE  MIDDLE   MISS   TALLMAN.  22Q 

and  marry  Mary  Anderson.  Is  n't  this  all 
so?" 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  attentively. 
She  was  crying  softly;  she  nodded  her 
head. 

"  Well,"  he  said  coolly,  "  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it.  It  is  an  impossibility.  You  are 
tormenting  yourself  for  nothing.  People 
can't  leave  their  characters  behind  them,  as 
a  snake  does  its  last  year's  skin,  and  appear 
in  something  else.  What  you  have  seemed, 
you  are.  If  you  have  appeared  charming 
and  attractive  and  lovable,  it  is  because  you 
are  charming  and  attractive  and  lovable. 
You  could  n't  appear  the  lovely  woman  that 
you  have  seemed  this  summer  without  really 
being  lovely,  any  more  than  you  could 
change  the  color  of  your  eyes." 

"  But  I  never  was  lovely  before,"  she  said 
faintly. 

"  You  never  were  just  the  same  age  that 
you  are  this  minute  before,"  he  answered 
promptly.  "  People  change  daily,  hourly. 
Development  is  not  untruthfulness.  If  you 
were  never  lovely  before  (which  I  don't 
believe),  your  character  was  forming  itself, 
quietly  and  silently,  to  be  lovely.  You  were 
ripe  for  loveliness,  and  it  needed  just  this 


230  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

change  of  scene  and  people  to  bring  it  out. 
You  might  as  well  accuse  a  rose-bush  of 
deceit  and  falsehood,  because  it  blossoms, 
instead  of  being  always  just  leaves  and 
stalks." 

She  watched  the  sea  with  a  wistful  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"  I  remember  something  about  a  fairy  story 
that  I  read  once,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  and  in  it  the  beautiful  prince  married  the 
beautiful  princess,  and  she  turns  into  a  hid- 
eous woman  with  a  black  face.  I  should  n't 
like  to  disappoint  you,  to  change  back  —  " 

"  You  don't  remember  the  story  aright," 
he  said  quickly.  "  The  prince  married  the 
hideous  black  woman,  and  then  she  turned 
into  the  beautiful  princess.  It  was  his  love 
that  made  her,  just  as  my  love  will  keep  you 
always  the  dear,  sweet  woman  that  you  are." 

"  But  when  I  go  back,  I  know  I  shall  be 
the  '  middle  Miss  Tallman '  again." 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  said,  "  she  has  '  burst  her 
bonds  with  sweet  surprise ; '  you  will  never 
be  able  to  find  her  again." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her 
to  him.  They  were  very  quiet  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  she  said,  - 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

"  If  different  people  draw  out  such  different 
sides  of  you,  what  is  the  real  you  ?  It  seems 
as  if  a  person  must  have  such  a  shifting, 
vacillating  character  to  change  so." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  he  answered.  "  The 
fewer  sides  a  character  has,  the  more  angular 
and  rigid  it  will  be,  — just  as  a  triangle  is  the 
sharpest,  most  pointed  of  any  geometrical 
figure.  It  is  a  positive  gain  to  a  man  when 
he  develops  a  new  side.  But  I  understand 
you,  dear.  You  mistrust  yourself;  you  are 
afraid  there  may  be  other  influences  in  your 
life  that  will  freeze  you  up  and  repress  you, 
and  I  shall  lose  what  I  love  about  you.  But 
that  can  never  happen.  Of  course,  there  are 
certain  times  when  every  one  appears  better 
than  at  others,  and  there  are  certain  people 
who  make  us  act  out  the  best  that  is  in  us ; 
but  the  best  must  be  there,  dear,  to  act.  Oh, 
my  darling,  it  is  you  I  love,  —  you,  the  sweet, 
pure,  true  woman !  What  do  I  care  how 
many  disguises  you  have  worn  or  may  wear? 
It  is  the  real  you,  underneath  all  outside 
change,  that  I  care  for.  I  shall  hold  you 
fast,  no  matter  how  you  change ;  yes,  even  if 
you  hurt  me,  I  shall  just  hold  you,  and  wait, 
and  by  and  by  my  darling  will  come  back  to 
me  again." 


232  THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN. 

He  clasped  her  closely,  as  if  the  "  holding  " 
he  spoke  of  had  a  literal,  as  well  as  a  spiritual 
meaning. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  has  happened,"  she 
murmured  ;  "  I  never  meant  to  accept  you." 

"  But  you  did,  for  the  very  best  reason  in 
the  world,  —  you  could  n't  help  it.  Will  you 
give  me  the  kiss  now  that  I  had  to  steal 
yesterday?  " 

She  gave  it  timidly,  and  with  it  her  last 
doubt  and  scruple  vanished. 

Just  then  a  little  breeze  lifted  a  corner  of 
the  duster,  and  wafted  it  conspicuously  before 
their  faces. 

He  touched  it  tenderly.  "  Nellie,  dear,"  he 
said,  "  I  know  why  you  wore  this  —  this  thing 
to-day." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  she  whispered.     "  Why?  " 

"  Because  you  had  made  up  your  mind  not 
to  deck  yourself  in  Kittie's  things  any  more  ; 
you  wanted  to  appear  just  as  you  were,  and 
in  your  own  garments." 

"  My  own  garments  !  "  she  gasped.  "  Did 
you  for  one  moment  think  that  this  night- 
mare belonged  to  me?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  so." 

"  Oh,  how  absurd !  Why,  it  is  Aunt 
Susan's.  My  clothes  never  had  quite  the  air 


THE  MIDDLE  MISS   TALLMAN.  233 

that  Kittie's  had  ;  but  they  certainly  did  n't 
look  like  Aunt  Susan's  dusters !  " 

"  Don't  you  ever  wear  anything  that 
belongs  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  meekly. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  second  indignantly, 
and  then  they  both  laughed. 

"  But  why  did  you  wear  it  to-day,  if  it  is 
your  aunt's?"  he  asked. 

Nellie  colored.  The  sacrificial  spirit  in 
which  she  had  donned  the  duster,  seemed 
rather  silly  to  her,  as  she  looked  back  upon 
it. 

"  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time,"  she 
said.  Then  she  added  :  "  I  think  I  shall 
always  love  this  old  duster,  first  because  it 
was  such  a  test  of  your  courage.  A  man 
must  be  brave  indeed  to  propose  to  a  girl  in 
Aunt  Susan's  duster !  And  then  —  "  she 
looked  at  him  shyly  —  "you  see  it  has  been 
my  coronation  robe  !  " 


A  THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.1 

MISS  SUSAN  DAVIS  stood  by  the 
table,  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  was  blushing  painfully.  It  was  not  a 
pretty  blush,  but  a  sort  of  brick-dust  color 
that  seemed  to  suffuse  her  whole  anatomy. 

"It's  come  sort  o'  sudden  at  last,"  she 
gasped,  —  "  sort  o'  sudden.  Hiram  says  he  's 
a-coming  on  'bout  the  last  o'  the  month,  and 
he  wants  to  be  married  on  Thanksgiving 
Day,  and  take  me  back  with  him.  It  kind 
o'  gives  me  a  turn." 

"Well,"  said  her  sister,  as  she  gave  the 
last  parting  thump  to  a  towel  she  was 
ironing,  "  you  've  had  time  enough  to  look 
forward  to  it  in." 

This  was  true,  for  Miss  Susan  had  been 
engaged  twelve  years.  She  was  not  a  young 
woman  at  the  beginning  of  her  romance,  and 
she  looked  older  to-day  than  her  thirty-nine 
years  warranted,  as  she  stood  clutching  her 
letter,  while  the  uncompromising  morning  sun 
lighted  her  sallow  face.  Her  lips  were  moving 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Harper's  Bazar." 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

tremulously.  Her  sandy  hair  was  streaked 
with  gray,  and  it  had  grown  thin  around  her 
temples  and  in  the  part.  Her  features  were 
sharp,  though  good  and  honest.  She  was 
tall  and  thin,  with  that-  peculiar  spareness 
and  rigidity  of  outline  by  which  certain  old 
maids  seem  to  announce  their  estate  to 
society  at  large. 

She  had  not  been  quite  so  plain  and 
scrawny  when  Hiram  Brown  asked  her  to 
marry  him  twelve  years  ago,  although  she 
had  never  been  pretty.  She  could  not  marry 
him  then;  her  plain  duty  seemed  to  forbid 
it,  and  she  was  one  of  those  conscientious 
souls  to  whom  violation  of  duty  was  more 
painful  than  the  sacrifice  of  happiness. 

Her  wedding  had  always  shone  before  her 
a  future  possibility.  To-day  it  suddenly 
took  shape  as  a  present  reality.  She  sighed 
a  little  heavily,  and  looked  appealingly  at 
her  sister. 

"  I  'm  all  ready,"  she  said  falteringly. 
"  There  won't  be  much  to  do." 

Her  sister  went  to  the  stove  and  put  down 
her  iron  without  answering;  then,  without 
getting  another,  she  came  back  to  the  table 
and  looked  at  Miss  Susan. 

She  was  the  older  woman  of  the  two,  and 


236  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

she  had  been  the  prettier.  Faint  traces  of 
attractiveness  still  lingered  in  her  eyes  and 
in  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  was  a 
widow,  and  she  had  had  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  Poverty,  a  worthless  husband,  and 
the  death  of  several  children  had  been  among 
her  trials.  They  had  left  her  with  a  shrill 
tone  in  her  voice  and  a  pessimistic  way  of 
looking  at  life  generally. 

"  There  '11  be  enough  to  do,"  she  said  to 
her  sister,  sharply.  "  There  always  is  when 
weddings  is  going  on.  There  's  the  raisins 
to  seed,  and  the  citron  to  cut,  and  the  cur- 
rants to  wash,  and  the  spices  to  grind, 
and  the  ham  to  boil,  and  the  hull  house  to 
clean,  and  all  to  be  got  through  with  by 
Thanksgiving.". 

Miss  Susan  looked  at  her  humbly.  She 
felt  ashamed  to  be  the  cause  of  so  much 
unusual  work.  "We  can  have  Sarah  Ann 
Tyler  in  to  help,"  she  suggested  meekly. 

"And  I'll  help  too,"  cried  a  young  girl, 
springing  up  from  her  seat  near  the  window. 
It  was  she  who  had  been  down-town  and 
brought  home  the  mail.  Her  arms  were  full 
of  bundles,  and  she  had  been  reading  some 
letters  of  her  own.  She  was  Miss  Susan's 
niece,  —  her  sister's  only  child.  She  was 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  237 

very  pretty,  and  she  looked  particularly  sweet 
as  she  stood  before  her  aunt  with  her  eager 
offer  of  help. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  lovely,"  she  said.  "  I  '11 
fill  the  house  with  golden-rod  and  autumn 
leaves." 

Then  she  laughed  a  little  and  looked  mis- 
chievously at  her  aunt;  but  it  never  occurred 
to  Miss  Susan  that  the  "  sere  and  yellow 
leaf"  would  be  rather  too  appropriate  a 
decoration  at  her  delayed  nuptials.  She  was 
very  thankful  for  a  little  sympathy. 

"  You  're  real  good,  Alice,"  she  said  grate- 
fully. "  I  guess  we  '11  get  through  with  it 
somehow." 

She  sighed  heavily  as  she  left  the  kitchen 
and  went  upstairs  to  her  own  little  chamber. 
The  ceiling  sloped  on  one  side  nearly  to  the 
floor  ;  but  the  sun  came  in  brightly  through 
the  one  window,  which  was  an  eastern  one, 
and  the  whitewashed  walls  were  very  clean. 
It  was  a  hot  little  room  in  summer,  and  a 
cold  one  in  winter,  and  never  convenient  at 
any  time  ;  but  Miss  Susan  loved  it  very 
dearly/  She  had  lived  the  better  part  of  her 
life  in  it.  She  looked  all  around  it  with  a 
tender,  mournful  glance. 

"  Seems  like  I  could  n't  never  feel  to  home 


238  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

in  any  other  room,"  she  murmured ;  and  the 
tears  started  in  her  faded  blue  eyes. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
"  Westconsin  's  awful  far  away,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  gazed  at  a  big  white  cloud 
which  was  sailing  westward,  with  a  troubled 
look.  It  was  in  Wisconsin  that  her  lover 
lived,  but  Miss  Susan  always  spoke  of  it  as 
Westcons'm.  She  seemed  to  feel  vaguely 
that  the  State  of  Consin  was  divided  into 
two  parts,  —  East  and  West,  like  North  and 
South  Dakota. 

She  turned  back  and  surveyed  her  little 
room  again.  There  was  a  rag  carpet  on  the 
floor,  and  a  big  old-fashioned  cherry  bureau 
stood  in  one  corner.  She  went  to  this,  and 
from  its  enormous  upper  drawer  began  to 
take  out  little  piles  of  underclothing.  These 
she  arranged  in  an  orderly  manner  upon  the 
patchwork  quilt  which  covered  her  bed. 

"  Some  of  'em  '11  have  to  be  done  up  over 
again,"  she  said,  as  she  examined  the  gar- 
ments critically ;  "  but  they  won't  none  of 
'em  have  to  be  bleached." 

She  had  made  them  at  different  times  dur- 
ing her  long  years  of  waiting.  When  the 
prospect  of  her  marriage  had  seemed  nearer, 
as  it  had  occasionally,  she  had  plied  her 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  239 

needle.  They  represented  months  of  patient 
labor.  She  touched  them  almost  reverently. 
They  had  been  washed  and  bleached  occa- 
sionally, as  time  laid  a  yellowing  touch  upon 
them,  but  never  worn.  They  were  infinitely 
more  pathetic  in  their  uselessness  than  the 
treasured  clothes  of  some  dead  darling, 
for  they,  at  least,  have  served,  a  human  life. 
Miss  Susan's  never  had.  They  had  been 
kept  while  she  waited  for  the  life  that  never 
came.  It  seemed  hardly  possible  to  her  that 
she  should  wear  them  now.  She  heard  her 
niece  in  the  next  room  singing  to  herself  as 
she  opened  and  shut  her  bureau  drawers, 
putting  away  her  things  and  changing  her 
dress. 

"  Alice,"  she  called  huskily,  "  come  here." 

The  girl  appeared  at  the  door  half  dressed. 
Her  white  neck  and  arms  were  bare,  and  her 
pretty  feet  and  ankles  showed  beneath  her 
short  skirt. 

"  I  '11  come  in  a  minute,  Aunt  Sue,"  she 
said ;  "  soon  as  I  get  a  dress  on." 

Miss  Susan  watched  her  wistfully.  She 
was  not  envious,  she  was  not  unhappy;  only 
in  a  dull  sort  of  way  she  saw  the  girl's  beauty, 
and  realized  that  it  was  a  fitter  dower  for  a 
happy  bride  than  her  own  faded  looks.  She 


240  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

went  to  her  little  glass,  hung  high  over  a 
shelf,  which  had  never  reflected  anything 
below  her  shoulders.  The  rest  of  her  person 
she  had  always  dressed  by  faith.  She  was 
still  looking  at  herself  when  her  niece  entered. 

"  Alice,"  she  said,  in  a  shamefaced  way,  — 
"  do  you  think  you  could  bang  my  hair  like 
yours  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Sit 
down  and  let's  see." 

She  drew  out  the  hair-pins  from  the  thin 
grayish  hair,  and  pulled  a.  portion  of  it 
forward. 

"  I  '11  have  to  cut  it  pretty  far  back  to  make 
it  thick  enough,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  care,"  responded  her  aunt, 
meekly.  "  Of  course  I  want  to  look  as  good 
as  I  can,"  she  added,  by  way  of  apology. 

"  You  Ve  been  engaged  a  long  time,  haven't 
you,  Aunt  Sue  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  as  she  plied 
the  brush  and  comb. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Susan ;  "  over  twelve 
years.  You  see,  I  could  n't  leave  ma  there 
at  first.  That  was  before  your  father  died, 
and  sister  Alviry  and  you  came  home  to 
live,  and  I  was  the  only  one  ma  had.  Then 
Hiram's  father  died,  and  he  had  to  help  his 
ma  a  spell,  while  the  little  children  was 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  241 

young.  Then  when  sister  Alviry  came  home, 
she  was  that  sickly  I  did  n't  dare  leave  her. 
But  she's  perked  up  wonderfully  this  last 
year.  I  don't  see  as  any  one  needs  me  now. 
I  guess  I  can  go  jest  as  well  as  not.  Land's 
sakes,  child !  you  aint  a-cutting  all  the  hair 
off  my  head,  are  you  ?  " 

Some  long  locks  had  fallen  in  her  lap. 
She  looked  up  alarmed. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  said  Alice,  reassuringly. 
"  It  isn't  exactly  like  mine,  but  I  hope  you  '11 
like  it." 

Miss  Susan  rose  and  looked  in  the  glass. 
The  stiff,  straight,  half  gray  bang  which  con- 
fronted her  certainly  was  unlike  the  soft 
yellow  curls  that  rested  over  her  niece's 
white  forehead 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Alice  ? "  she 
asked. 

"I  think  it  will  look  better  if  you'll  curl  it 
a  little,"  answered  Alice,  diplomatically. 

Miss  Susan  looked  back  at  her  reflected 
image  in  grim  silence.  "  Well,  /  think  it 's 
awful,"  she  said  solemnly.  "  I  look  as 
much  homelier  than  I  did  before  as  nothing; 
and  I  sha'  n't  curl  it  neither.  I  Ve  made 
a  fool  enough  of  myself.  I  'm  enough  to 
scare  a  dog,  and  I  deserve  it.  Serves  me 
16 


242  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

right,  a-trying  to  prune  my  feathers  at  my 
age." 

Miss  Susan  often  made  a  mistake  in  a 
simple  word,  and  frequently  hit  upon  a 
better  substitute.  In  the  present  instance  she 
meant  "  preen,"  but  "  prune "  was  certainly 
more  effective.  She  had  undoubtedly  been 
"  pruned." 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Alice,  regretfully. 
"  Why,  I  don't  think  it  looks  so  bad  at  all." 

"  'T  aint  your  fault,  child ;  I  asked  you  to 
do  it.  There !  I  aint  a-going  to  think  about 
it  any  more.  P'r'aps  they  wear  bangs  more 
out  in  Westconsin.  Maybe  it  won't  look  so 
bad  to  Hiram." 

She  put  away  her  brush  and  comb  with 
the  decision  of  one  who  leaves  his  folly 
behind  him. 

"  Alice,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  I  want  to 
show  you  my  stun-colored  silk." 

The  girl  watched  her  with  much  interest  as 
she  unlocked  a  large  trunk  that  stood  in  her 
room,  and  took  from  the  bottom  of  it  a  care- 
fully done-up  package.  It  was  her  unmade 
wedding  dress,  purchased  years  ago,  and 
cared  for  ever  since,  so  that  it  should  n't 
crack  in  the  creases.  It  was  a  sort  of  slaty 
gray;  but  Miss  Susan,  with  a  lofty  con- 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  243 

tempt  for   all  geological  differences,  always 
spoke  of  it  as  "  stun-colored." 

"  My  black  silk  was  made  up  seven  years 
ago,"  she  said  cheerfully ;  "  but  I  hain't  never 
worn  it,  and  a  good  black  silk  don't  get  out 
of  style.  Would  you  have  this  skirt  made 
plain,  Alice  ? "  she  asked,  a  few  moments 
later ;  "  or  does  it  require  a  flounce  ?  "  She 
stroked  the  shining  breadths  of  the  well-kept 
silk  as  she  spoke. 

"  Are  you  going  to  trim  it  with  anything?  " 
asked  Alice. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  'Lizabeth  Mallory, 
she  had  her  wedding  dress  trimmed  with 
gathered  ruffles  o'  lace,  —  the  thinnest  stuff, 
just  as  thin  as  a  rail.  But  I  have  n't  got 
anything  'cept  ruffles  of  the  same,  and  the 
marks  of  the  stitches  never  will  come  out, 
when  I  want  to  make  it  over.  I  was  think- 
ing, Alice,"  she  added  bashfully,  "  that  I  'd 
wear  a  little  white  tulle,  and  a  few  white 
chrysanthemums,  and  my  cameo  pin,  that 
was  ma's.  I  Ve  thought  of  it  for  years,  — 
narcissuses  if  it  happened  in  the  spring, 
white  roses  in  the  summer,  and  chrysanthe- 
mums in  the  fall.  Don't  you  think  they  '11 
last  till  then?  That  pot  in  the  west  window's 
only  begun  to  bloom." 


244  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  while  some  unaccus- 
tomed feeling  stirred  at  her  heart,  —  "yes, 
dear  Aunt  Sue,  I  'm  sure  they  '11  last." 

They  planned  the  making  of  the  important 
"  stun-color"  still  further ;  and  when  Miss 
Susan  went  down-stairs  her  heart  was  lighter 
than  it  had  been  at  any  time  since  the  arri- 
val of  her  lover's  letter.  She  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  unfortunate  cut  of  her  bang ; 
tut  her  sister  gave  her  a  comprehensive 
glance  as  she  came  in,  and  exclaimed,  with 
much  earnestness,  — 

"  How  you  do  look !  " 

"  I  know,""  answered  Miss  Susan,  quite 
impersonally.  "Aint  it  awful?  I  look  as 
old  as  Methuselum  !  " 

Those  were  busy  days  that  followed  in  the 
little  brown  house  at  the  head  of  the  street. 
Two  lilac  bushes  stood  sentinel  by  the  door, 
and  they  rustled  their  rusty  leaves  as  if  they 
were  comparing  notes  over  the  strange  pro- 
ceedings. More  people  passed  between  them 
on  their  way  to  and  from  the  little  gate  than 
had  ever  passed  before. 

The  very  hens  seemed  to  feel  that  some- 
thing was  going  on  which  affected,  perhaps 
even  threatened,  their  very  lives.  They 
seemed  to  scratch  in  a  more  subdued  way. 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  245 

Miss  Susan  fed  them  carefully,  as  she  had 
done  every  morning  for  years.  She  was 
very  fond  of  her  hens,  though  she  had  never 
seen  any  particular  use  in  roosters. 

"  They  just  strut  round  and  crow,  and  seem 
to  distract  the  hens,"  she  said  ;  and  she  had 
innocently  tried  to  get  along  without  them, 
but  had  finally  yielded  to  custom  enough  to 
harbor  one  quiet,  rather  depressed-looking 
cock,  who  was  n  't,  as  she  expressed  it,  "  for- 
ever a-cock-a-doodle-ling." 

"  Poor  creeturs !  "  Miss  Susan  would  say, 
as  she  fed  her  chickens.  "  Poor  creeturs ! 
Seems  kind  o'  heartless  to  go  off  and  leave 
you  ;  and  Speckley  there,  she  aint  half  so 
peart  as  common.  I  always  kind  o'  depended 
on  her." 

She  tried,  poor  soul,  to  extend  her  watch- 
ful care  into  the  future.  "  Alviry,"  she  said 
suddenly,  one  day,  "them  little  peach-trees 
down  by  the  pump  ought  to  be  drafted  next 
spring." 

Her  sister  had  no  vision  of  them  marching 
off  to  war,  as  the  words  implied  ;  she  simply 
understood  what  Miss  Susan  meant. 

"  I  '11  see  to  that,"  she  exclaimed,  so  sharply 
that  Miss  Susan,  who  had  several  more  sug- 
gestions to  make,  was  silent,  and  went  on 


246  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

stoning  her  raisins,  simply  remarking,  after 
the  lapse  of  some  moments,  that  if  there  was 
one  thing  she  did  hate,  it  was  "  gritty  cake." 

The  "  stun-colored  "  silk  had  been  made 
up,  the  minister  notified,  and  the  guests 
invited. 

"  It 's  the  last  Monday ! "  gasped  Miss 
Susan,  —  "  the  last  Monday.  It  don't  seem 
right  not  to  have  washing  going  on." 

She  had  not  seemed  to  thrive  under  the 
various  preparations.  She  looked  thinner 
and  more  anxious  than  ever,  and  there  was  a 
hunted,  appealing  expression  in  her  eyes,  as 
if  she  were  more  in  dread  of  the  future  than 
rejoicing  over  it. 

"  I  declare  to  goodness,"  said  her  sister  one 
morning,  "you  put  me  all  out  of  patience, 
Susan.  You  go  round  as  if  you  was  waiting 
for  your  funeral  'stead  of  your  wedding. 
Can't  you  chirk  up  a  little?" 

Miss  Susan  stood  by  the  kitchen  table,  her 
pan  of  chicken-feed  in  her  hand.  "  Of 
course  I  'm  goin'  to  be  very  happy,"  she  said 
tremulously;  "  but  I  never  was  married 
before,  and  it  came  so  sudden  at  the  last. 
I  mistrust  I  aint  used  to  the  idee  yet." 

"  And  marriage  is  an  awful  lottery  anyway, 
isn't  it,  Aunt  Sue?"  chimed  in  Alice,  who 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  247 

had  just  come  in.  She  had  gone  out  early 
to  do  some  errands.  There  was  a  tall  young 
man  with  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  him 
saucily  as  she  spoke.  He  had  been  with  her 
a  great  deal  lately,  and  had  helped  them  all 
in  many  little  ways  to  prepare  for  Miss 
Susan's  wedding. 

"  Alice,"  he  said  meaningly,  "  you  stop 
your  fooling  while  I  speak  to  your  mother. 
Mrs.  Putnam,  I  —  I  —  '  he  began,  with  a 
visible  effort ;  then  he  stopped  and  cleared  his 
throat. 

Alice  laughed  at  him.  "  Oh,  you  great 
silly  !  "  she  said.  "  Mother,  he  thinks  you  're 
so  fond  of  weddings  that  you  'd  like  to  have 
another  in  the  family.  Aunt  Sue,  he  wants 
to  make  you  a  wedding  present  of  a  nephew. 
There  now,  see  if  you  can't  do  the  rest  your- 
self," and  she  ran  off  laughing,  but  with  her 
face  aflame. 

"  I  want  to  know !  "  gasped  poor  Miss 
Susan. 

"  Well,  this  beats  me  !  "  said  Mrs.  Putnam. 

The  two  old  ladies  dropped  their  arms  by 
their  sides  as  if  by  a  common  impulse,  and 
turned  and  stared  fixedly  at  the  young  man. 

He  fumbled  the  brim  of  his  hat  nervously. 
"  You  see,  Mrs.  Putnam,"  he  began,  "  I  Ve 


248  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

wanted  Alice  to  marry  me  for  a  long  time  ; 
but  first  she  'd  say  yes,  and  then  she  'd  say 
no,  and  it  was  n't  until  last  evening  that  I 
got  her  to  say  she  would  as  if  she  really 
meant  it,  and  to  say  I  might  tell  you.  So  I 
came  up  the  first  thing  to  have  the  matter 
settled  before  she  changed  her  mind  again. 
Alice  is  the  sweetest  girl  I  ever  saw,  but  she 
does  seem  so  slippery." 

A  low  derisive  laugh  floated  down  the 
stairs. 

"  Why,  Henry  Morgan,"  said  Mrs.  Putnam, 
"  you  just  take  my  breath  away.  Alice  aint 
no  more  fit  to  be  married  than  a  baby.  She 
can't  make  bread  ;  she  don't  know  a  thing 
about  housekeeping." 

"Yes  I  do  too,"  cried  a  voice  from  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  "  I  can  boil  eggs  and 
make  sponge-cake,  and  Henry  says  he  's  will- 
ing to  live  on  those  awhile." 

"  I  don't  care,  Mrs.  Putnam,"  said  the 
young  man,  earnestly.  "  We  can  board,  if 
Alice  would  rather.  I  Ve  got  plenty  to  take 
care  of  her  with.  You  know  father  left  me 
the  place  and  five  thousand  dollars  besides, 
and  they  raised  my  salary  last  spring.  If  I 
can  only  have  Alice,  I  '11  do  my  best  to  make 
her  happy." 


•A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  249 

"  Why,  Henry,"  said  Mrs.  Putnam,  kindly, 
"  I  haint  no  objection  that  I  know  of.  You've 
always  been  reported  well-behaved  and 
steady.  I  'm  sure  I  'm  glad  enough  to  have 
you  marry  Alice,  for  I  know  you  '11  do  well 
by  her,  only  I  am  so  took  by  surprise." 

Miss  Susan  had  not  spoken  during  this 
conversation.  Her  eyes  filled  slowly  under 
her  rampant  bang.  "  I  guess  I  '11  go  out 
and  feed  the  chickens,"  she  murmured  softly. 
"  Poor  creeturs  !  poor  creeturs  !  "  she  said,  as 
they  came  clucking  around  her  ;  "  that's  the 
way  they  ought  to  feel,  I  suppose.  Shoo, 
there !  Now,  Speckley,  don't  you  go  and  fail 
me;  I  just  need  all  the  help  I  can  get.  So 
lovin'  and  eager  !  Yes,  that 's  the  way  to  feel. 
Poor  creeturs !  " 

Whether  the  chickens  understood  her 
rather  incoherent  remarks  or  not,  she  certainly 
was  comforted  and  strengthened  herself; 
and  she  went  back  through  the  shed  and 
into  the  kitchen  of  the  little  brown  house, 
strong  to  bear  whatever  ordeal  was  before 
her.  But  the  ordeal  took  an  unexpected 
shape.  It  came  in  the  guise  of  a  letter  on 
Wednesday  morning,  the  day  before  the  wed- 
ding day.  It  was  a  letter  from  Hiram.  Miss 
Susan  had  been  expecting  him,  and  she  said 


250  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

as  she  took  the  letter,  "  This  is  to  tell 
when  he  '11  come,  most  likely ;  but  he  '11  get 
here  now  'bout  as  soon  as  his  letter." 

Alice  was  pinning  up  golden-rod  on  the 
curtains.  "  It's  such  an  obliging  flower,"  she 
said  to  Henry  Morgan,  who  was  helping  her ; 
"  it  stays  just  where  you  put  it,  and  it  does  n't 
fade." 

Miss  Susan  opened  her  letter  and  read  it 
eagerly.  Then  she  turned  very  white.  She 
sank  down  by  the  side  of  a  little  table,  threw 
her  arms  across  it,  and  buried  her  face  in 
them.  "  Oh,  my  good  Lord !  "  she  cried, 
"  my  good  Lord  !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  startled  silence. 
Then  Mrs.  Putnam  ran  to  her.  "  Susan, 
Susan,  whatever  is  the  matter?"  She  put 
her  hands  on  her  sister's  bowed  shoulders  and 
gave  her  a  little  shake. 

Miss  Susan  roused  herself  with  a  start,  and 
sat  up  very  straight.  Her  face  was  red,  and 
her  unfortunate  bang  stuck  out  in  a  fierce 
defiant  sort  of  way.  There  were  no  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "Hiram  —  aint — a-coming," 
she  gasped  ;  "  he 's  a-going  to  marry  some 
other  woman.  There  aint  going  to  be  any 
wedding  here  at  all.  Alice,  you  stop  pinning 
up  that  golden-rod  !  Alviry,  don't  you  bake 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  2$l 

all  that  bread  we  Ve  got  in  sponge ;  we  won't 
need  no  sandwiches."  Then  she  rose.  There 
was  a  certain  terrible  dignity  about  her. 
"  You  can  read  his  letter,"  she  said,  "  and 
don't  you,  one  o'  you,  ever  speak  his  name 
to  me  again  !  " 

She  went  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  they 
heard  her  go  into  her  own  little  room  and 
shut  the  door.  Then  in  awe-struck  silence 
they  came  together  and  picked  up  the  fatal 
letter,  which  Alice  read  aloud. 

It  was  the  despairing  letter  of  a  weak  but 
not  a  wicked  man.  There  had  been  another 
woman  it  seemed,  who  had  a  claim  upon  him. 
Mrs.  Putnam  and  Alice,  in  their  simplicity 
and  ignorance,  could  no  more  understand  the 
nature  of  this  claim  than  poor  Miss  Susan 
had  done.  But  Henry  Morgan  guessed  the 
truth. 

"  He 's  a  scoundrel,  a  villain ! "  he  said 
passionately.  "  I  would  like  to  horsewhip 
him ! " 

The  writer  spoke  of  this  woman  as 
"  another  lady,"  and  said,  with  a  sort  of 
pathos,  that  she  was  "  cutting  up  awful," 
when  she  heard  he  was  going  to  be  married. 
He  went  on  :  — 


252  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

She  says  she  '11  have  the  law  on  me ;  and  I  don't 
feel  that  she  '11  ever  let  me  be  in  peace,  even  if  I 
was  married  to  you.  I  wish  I  was  dead.  There 
aint  anything  I  can  say.  I  'm  so  'shamed  of  what 
I  done,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  look  any  one  in 
the  face  again.  We  had  to  wait  too  long,  Susan, 
that  was  the  trouble.  If  I  could  have  married  you 
ten  years  ago,  it  would  all  have  been  right.  But  I 
never  meant  to  treat  you  like  this.  I  meant  to  be 
honest  and  keep  my  word.  I  wish  I  was  dead  and 
the  grass  growing  over  me.  She  says  she  '11  shoot 
me,  and  you  too,  if  I  marry  you.  I  aint  good 
enough  for  you,  —  I  never  was.  Don't  take  it  too 
much  to  heart,  and  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  for 
you,  let  me  know. 

Respectfully  yours, 

HIRAM. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  said  Mrs.  Putnam ;  "  if 
that  aint  too  mean  !  And  the  cake  all  made, 
and  Susan  all  ready!  What '11  folks  say? 
Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  "  And  she  put  her 
apron  over  her  face  and  began  to  cry. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  it !  "  said  Alice,  with  a  sort 
of  divination.  "  It 's  better  so." 

Her  mother  put  down  her  apron  in  aston- 
ishment. "  Why,  Alice  Putnam,  how  you 
talk  !  I  guess  you  would  n't  like  any  one  to 
be  saying  such  things  about  you  and  Henry." 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  253 

The  girl  colored,  and  glanced  at  her  lover 
timidly.  "  It  is  different,"  she  said  softly. 
Then  she  added:  "Henry,  we  mustn't  be 
together  much  before  Aunt  Susan  now.  It 
seems  sort  of  insulting,  prancing  'round,  show- 
ing how  happy  we  are,  when  she  's  had  such 
a  blow.  Let 's  take  down  all  the  golden-rod, 
and  get  everything  out  of  sight,  and  make 
the  rooms  look  natural  before  she  comes 
down." 

So  they  went  to  work,  removing  all  traces 
of  the  wedding  preparations.  No  sound 
came  from  that  closed  chamber  overhead. 
At  dinner-time  Alice  went  up  softly  and 
knocked  on  the  door. 

"  Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Aunt  Sue  ?  " 
she  said  gently.  "  I  Ve  brought  you  one, 
and  a  piece  of  pie." 

"  Put  'em  down  on  the  floor,  Alice," 
answered  Miss  Susan,  in  a  clear,  composed 
voice.  "  I  'm  a-ripping  up  my  stun-colored 
silk." 

Alice  went  down  and  told  her  mother. 
She  held  up  both  hands  in  amazement. 

"  Ripping  up  her  stun-colored  silk  !  "  she 
screamed.  "  I  call  that  real  sinful.  She 's 
just  paid  Sarah  Ann  Tyler  four  dollars  for 
making  it  up,  and  never  so  much  as  had  it 


254  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

on  her  back.  Seems  as  if  I  ought  to  go  up 
and  reason  with  her." 

"  I  'd  rip  it  up  and  cut  it  into  inch  pieces 
too,  if  I  was  her,"  said  Alice,  defiantly. 

"  Then  you  'd  be  sillier  than  usual,"  said 
her  mother,  with  cool  contempt. 

It  was  after  tea  before  Miss  Susan  finally 
emerged.  She  had  put  back  her  bang ;  that 
is,  she  had  tried  to,  but  several  rebellious 
locks  stood  out  at  right  angles  to  her  fore- 
head, as  straight  and  curlless  as  pine  needles. 

She  walked  down  through  the  sitting-room 
and  out  into  the  kitchen,  her  empty  plate 
and  cup  and  saucer  in  her  hand.  "  I  guess 
I  '11  let  them  stand  till  morning,"  she 
remarked  casually,  as  she  put  them  down  on 
the  table ;  "  't  aint  worth  while  getting  out 
the  dish-pan  for  so  few."  She  passed  through 
the  shed  and  out  into  the  yard. 

"  I  believe  she 's  gone  to  the  hen-coop," 
said  Mrs.  Putnam,  in  an  excited  whisper. 
"  She  always  did  seem  to  get  more  comfort 
out  of  them  hens  than  anything  else." 

"  Don't  speak  to  her,"  said  Alice,  "  until 
she  speaks,  and  then  just  answer  her  as  if 
nothing  had  happened." 

When  Miss  Susan  returned,  Henry  and 
Alice  were  conspicuously  seated  on  opposite 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  255 

sides  of  the  table,  Alice  engaged  in  looking 
at  a  sea-shell  which  had  been  a  parlor  orna- 
ment ever  since  she  was  born,  while  Henry 
was  poring  intently  over  the  family  photo- 
graph-album. 

Mrs.  Putnam  sat  on  the  sofa,  .hemming 
a  dish-cloth,  with  an  elaborate  air  of 
unconsciousness. 

Miss  Susan  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment 
and  surveyed  them.  "  I  never  thought  I  'd 
say  what  I  'm  going  to,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  it 
seems  indecent;  but  I  can't  have  you  sitting 
around  this  way,  acting  as  if  I  was  a  piece  of 
cracked  chiny  that  you  'd  got  to  handle 
mighty  gingerly  or  it  would  drop  all  to 
pieces.  I  aint  so  breakly.  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  /  'm  glad  of  it.  There !  do  you 
hear?  I'm  glad  of  it ;  and  I  aint  a-saying 
this  either  just  to  put  on  airs,  and  pretend  I 
don't  care.  Of  course  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  been 
hit  right  in  the  face,  and  that  aint  pleasant ; 
but  if  there  was  n't  no  other  way  out  of  it 
but  just  this,  I  would  rather  it  had  come  so 
than  not  at  all.  I  Ve  felt  awful  'bout  getting 
married.  No  one  knows  how  bad  unless  it 's 
Speckley ;  and  I  declare  it  seems  to  me  some- 
times as  if  that  creetur  understood.  You 
see,"  she  said,  eying  the  young  people  before 


256  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

her  rather  wistfully,  "  I  guess  marriage  is 
something  like  the  measles  and  the  whooping- 
cough,  —  you  Ve  got  to  take  it  young  if  you 
want  to  have  it  easy.  Now  'twould  have 
gone  terrible  hard  with  me.  Seems  as 
if  I  could  n't  leave  the  old  house  and  my 
room  and  the  back  yard  and  the  chickens 
noway,  and  Westconsin  was  so  far  to  go !  " 
She  choked  for  a  second,  and 'sniffed  a  little. 
Then  she  recovered  herself  and  went  on : 
"  Of  course  I  'm  just  as  ashamed  as  a  goat 
'bout  it  all.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
folks,  and  there  's  them  five  casters  and  all 
my  other  presents  to  go  back.  I  think  I  '11 
just  say,  good  and  plain,  that  Hiram  jilted 
me.  I  could  n't  stand  it  at  all  if  I  was  hurt 
inside  and  ashamed  outside  both ;  but,  you 
see,  I  aint.  I  'm  just  as  glad  in  my  heart,  — 
just  as  glad  as  anything.  It  's  a  pity  'bout 
the  cake,  though,,  it  got  such  a  good  bake. 
I  suppose  I  could  sell  it  down  at  that  new 
store,  —  the  Women's  Estranged  they  call 
it ;  but  I  made  that  cake  for  myself,  and  it 
kind  of  makes  me  wreathe  to  think  of  strange 
jaws  chewing  it."  She  looked  at  them  a 
minute  in  silence,  then  a  sudden  twinkle 
gleamed  in  her  blue  faded  eyes.  "  You  two 
could  n't  make  it  convenient  to  get  mar- 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

ried  to-morrow,  could  you,  and  use  that 
cake?" 

The  color  swept  over  Alice's  face  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  stood  in  the  glare  of  a  red 
light.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Sue  !  "  she  cried ;  "  how 
could  you  ?  How  could  you?  " 

But  Henry  rose  excitedly.  "  Aunt  Sue," 
he  exclaimed,  "  you  're  a  brick  !  We  will ! 
Alice,  we  must !  we  will !  It 's  the  very 
thing!  What's  the  use  of  waiting?  It 
will  help  Aunt  Sue  more  than  anything  we 
could  do?  Don't  you  see?  Say  you  will, 
Alice,  —  say  you  will." 

He  had  his  arm  around  her,  urging  her 
with  great  earnestness ;  but  Alice  put  both 
hands  before  her  face  and  gasped,  "  Why, 
it 's  perfectly  dreadful !  I  would  n't  for  any- 
thing !  I  can't,  I  can't !  " 

Miss  Susan  watched  them  wearily.  "  Alice," 
she  said  simply,  "  put  down  your  hands  and 
look  at  poor  Henry.  He  's  bitin'  his  nails 
clear  to  the  wick,  he  's  so  excited.  Listen  to 
what  he  says.  'T  aint  best  to  wait  too  long. 
If  you  could  make  it  convenient,  why,  there  's 
the  ham  all  boiled  and  everything  ready. 
We  need  n't  nullify  the  minister,  nor  any- 
thing; just  let  things  go  on  as  they  was 
a-going.  And  Alice,  if  there  's  anything  o' 
17 


258  A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING. 

mine  you  want,  you  're  welcome  to  it,  though 
judging  by  my  bang,  I  don't  think  your 
things  become  me,  and  'taint  likely  mine 
would  you.  I  did  n't  rip  up  my  black  silk, 
and  I  'd  like  real  well  to  wear  it  at  your 
wedding." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  left  them, 
Alice  obstinate  and  unyielding,  Henry  eager 
and  determined.  Alice  declared  again  and 
again  that  she  never  could  think  of  it ;  but  to 
Henry  it  seemed  a  rare  and  unique  chance 
to  obtain  possession  of  the  girl  whom  he  had 
loved  for  so  long,  but  whom  he  had  aptly 
called  "  slippery."  Her  coquetry  had  hurt 
him,  and  almost  driven  him  away  in  the  past, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  it  in  the  future.  It 
seemed  a  case  of  now  or  never  with  him,  and 
he  pressed  his  suit  with  all  the  ardor  that  he 
possessed.  He  conquered  finally,  Alice  pro- 
testing to  the  last  minute  that  she  never 
would. 

And  so  the  Thanksgiving  wedding  came 
off  as  expected  in  the  little  brown  house, 
only  with  a  slight  change  in  the  dramatis 
persona. 

When  it  was  over,  and  the  bride  and  groom 
were  starting,  Miss  Susan  ran  down  to  the 
carriage  for  a  last  good -by. 


A    THANKSGIVING    WEDDING.  259 

"  Don't  you  worry  'bout  me,  Alice,"  she 
said.  "  I  'm  so  glad  it 's  you  instead  of  me, 
I  could  just  shout  for  joy!  It's  been  a  real 
Thanksgiving  to  me,  I  can  tell  you.  I  never 
was  so  thankful  for  all  my  mercies  before. 
I  shall  feel  just  like  myself  by  the  time 
my  bang  grows  out,  only  contenteder. 
Good-by  now,  and  mind  that  you  owe  Henry 
all  your  allurements  in  everything." 

With  which  enigmatical  remark  she  retired 
to  the  porch,  from  which  she  threw  a  well- 
worn  prunello  slipper  after  the  retreating 
carriage. 

Then  she  re-entered  her  home  with  a  glad 
and  thankful  heart. 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.1 

MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON  had  had  a 
legacy  left  her.     All  Mortonville  was 
talking  about  it,  and  no  one  was  more  sur- 
prised than  Miss  Polly  herself. 

It  came  from  an  uncle  of  hers,  who  had 
made  a  large  fortune  out  of  patent  pills. 
With  delightful  irony,  he  endowed  a  medical 
college  at  his  death  with  the  bulk  of  his  for- 
tune; and  then,  nobody  could  tell  how  or 
why,  he  seemed  to  have  remembered  Miss 
Polly,  and  as  if  in  partial  atonement  for  a 
life  of  neglect,  he  had  left  a  certain  sum  to 
his  "  dear  niece,  for  her  use  and  behoof  for- 
ever." It  was  not  a  large  sum,  but  to  Miss 
Polly  it  seemed  enormous.  She  felt  all  at 
once  the  responsibility  of  being  an  heiress. 

She  had  never  seen  this  uncle  but  twice,  — 
once  when,  as  a  very  little  child,  she  had 
gone  to  his  house  in  the  city,  and  he  had 
sharply  rebuked  her  for  handling  a  glass 
paper-weight  made  in  imitation  of  a  very 
red  and  yellow  apple.  That  glass  apple  had 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Harper's  Bazar." 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       26 1 

hung  like  forbidden  fruit  all  through  Miss 
Polly's  childhood.  She  remembered  how 
very  red  and  shiny  it  was,  and  how  beetling 
her  uncle's  shaggy  eyebrows  were,  and  how 
gruff  his  voice  when  he  told  her  not  to  touch 
it  Sometimes,  quite  late  in  life,  Miss  Polly 
could  scarcely  bring  herself  to  bite  certain 
real  apples  which  looked  particularly  red 
and  glasslike,  so  strong  was  the  remembrance 
of  her  early  rebuke. 

Then,  when  her  mother  died,  she  had  sent 
her  uncle  word;  and  to  her  great  surprise 
he  had  come  to  Mortonville  to  the  funeral. 
He  left  immediately  after  it  was  over;  but 
not  before  he  had  called  Miss  Polly  into  his 
presence,  and  had  looked  at  her  sharply, 
remarking  critically,  and  with  the  freedom 
of  a  near  relative,  that  she  "  looked  sallow." 
Then  he  had  given  her  a  check  for  fifty  dol- 
lars, and  departed.  Miss  Polly  was  indignant, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  bring 
herself  to  use  the  money.  A  gift  coupled 
with  such  a  personal  reflection  seemed  to 
lose  all  its  value  and  become  an  insult. 

Still,  although  these  two  somewhat  un- 
pleasant occasions  were  the  only  ones  Miss 
Polly  could  remember  when  she  had  met  her 
uncle,  she  felt  it  her  duty  (in  view  of  the 


262       MISS  POLLY  A  THE 'R TON'S  BELL. 

legacy)  to  put  on  mourning  for  him.  So 
she  resurrected  from  the  garret  the  family 
veil  of  rusty  crape  that  had  done  duty  at 
all  the  Atherton  funerals  in  the  past.  She 
pinned  her  little  black  shawl  tight  around 
her,  and  walked  with  a  dignified  gait,  quite 
unlike  her  usual  brisk,  nipping  walk.  She 
deemed  this  more  suitable  for  a  mourner. 
Her  friends  all  came  and  called  on  her, 
bringing  sympathy  and  congratulations,  but 
it  must  be  confessed  being  more  liberal  with 
the  latter. 

Miss  Polly  suddenly  found  herself  a  person 
of  much  importance  in  a  social  way;  yet 
when  the  minister  called  on  a  cold  October 
day,  she  did  not  allow  her  altered  circum- 
stances to  interfere  with  her  good  common- 
sense.  She  looked  at  him  a  minute  as  he 
stood  in  the  doorway,  rather  pinched  and 
blue  with  the  cold,  and  then  she  said  heart- 
ily, "  I  aint  a-going  to  make  you  set  in 
the  parlor  without  a  fire;  you  come  right 
out  to  the  kitchen  where  I  was  a-setting. 
You  know  what  parlors  looks  like  anyway,"  — 
which  he  did  to  his  sorrow,  poor  young  man, 
having  shivered  in  them  too  often  ever  to 
forget  their  appearance. 

So    she  went  before  him   into   the    clean, 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  SELL.       263 

sunny  kitchen,  drew  a  chair  up  before  the 
stove,  and  hospitably  opened  the  oven  door. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  jist  put  your  feet 
inside  and  git  'em  het  up  a  bit." 

She  walked  around  to  the  other  side  of  the 
stove,  where  the  door  was  already  open,  and 
seated  herself.  The  minister  smiled  above 
the  stove  lids  at  her.  He  had  never  occupied 
the  same  oven,  so  to  speak,  with  Miss  Polly 
before ;  but  he  was  not  surprised.  She  was 
the  oddest  sheep  in  his  somewhat  hetero- 
geneous flock.  He  was  rather  a  young 
shepherd  to  have  a  flock  at  all,  —  a  fair-faced, 
slim  collegian,  who  had  come  to  Mortonville 
about  a  year  before,  greatly  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  his  own  responsibility  and  the 
dignity  of  his  office. 

He  was  "an  Episcopal," —  at  least  Miss  Polly 
and  the  majority  of  his  congregation  called 
him  that.  Miss  Polly  was  scarcely  to  blame 
for  the  inaccuracy,  for  she  had  been  brought 
up  within  the  Presbyterian  fold,  and  had  only 
strayed  from  it  recently.  There  had  been 
some  little  church  quarrel,  very  petty,  very 
wordy,  and  very  bitter ;  and  Miss  Polly,  with 
half  a  dozen  others,  had  left  the  church, 
shaking  the  dust  from  her  feet,  and  feeling 
relentlessly  antagonistic  toward  her  old  asso- 


264       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

ciates.  The  Episcopal  graft  flowered  strangely 
upon  the  Presbyterian  stock,  and  among  all 
his  congregation  no  one  was  more  interesting 
to  the  Rev.  William  Gray  than  Miss  Polly 
Atherton. 

He  looked  across  the  stove  at  her  now,  and 
said,  smiling,  "  Miss  Atherton,  I  hear  you 
have  become  an  heiress.  I  want  to  congratu- 
late you." 

Miss  Polly  sniffed.  "  I  was  n't  expecting 
it,"  she  said  slowly.  "It's  come  upon  me 
awful  sudden." 

"  It  will  be  a  delightful  thing  for  you  in  a 
great  many  ways,"  said  the  clergyman.  "  It 
will  enable  you  to  do  for  others ;  and  that  I 
know  has  always  been  one  of  your  greatest 
pleasures." 

Miss  Polly  gave  a  deprecatory  cough,  and 
seemed  to  be  tracing  an  intricate  pattern 
with  her  forefinger  on  the  copper  reservoir. 

"Was  your  uncle  a  Churchman?"  asked 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Gray. 

"A  what?"  asked  Miss  Polly,  doubtfully. 
She  had  never  quite  grasped  the  full  meaning 
of  that  word. 

"  A  Churchman,"  he  repeated,  —  "  an 
Episcopalian." 

"  Oh,  yes,"    she    answered  ;     "  Uncle    Seth 


MISS  POLLY  A  THE R  TON'S  BELL.       26$ 

was  the —  What  do  you  call  it?  It's  got 
something  to  do  with  clothes ;  't  aint  pants 
nor  coats,  though.  Oh,  I  know,  the  vestory. 
He  was  that." 

It  was  Mr.  Gray's  turn  to  cough  now. 
"  Was  he  indeed  ?  "  he  said,  after  a  minute. 
"  Miss  Atherton,  I  have  been  thinking  that 
you  might  like  to  put  some  memorial  of  your 
uncle  into  the  church.  If  you  should,  I 
should  be  most  happy  to  assist  you  in  any 
way." 

Miss  Polly  stared  at  him  blankly.  "  Some- 
thing to  remember  him  by,  do  you  mean?" 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  partly.  Something  commemorating 
his  life  and  good  works  ;  something  emblem- 
atic and  appropriate,  you  know." 

Her  brain  whirled.  If  she  had  been  asked 
at  that  moment  to  furnish  an  appropriate 
emblem  for  her  uncle,  she  could  have  thought 
of  nothing  but  a  red-glass  paper-weight  In 
the  shape  of  an  apple ;  and  even  to  her 
bewildered  mind  that  appeared  an  unusual 
as  well  as  an  unchurchly  decoration. 

"What  was  the  character  of  your  uncle, 
Miss  Atherton  ?  Was  he  more  conspicuous 
for  faith  or  works  ?  " 

"  I    don't    know,"  she  answered    vaguely  ; 


266       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

"  he  made  pills."  Then  a  troubled,  embar- 
rassed look  came  over  her  face*  She  seemed 
to  be  struggling  with  a  confession,  and 
finally,  with  much  diffidence,  she  said :  "  I 
don't  know  as  I  ought  to  mention  it,  but  it 
don't  seem  right  for  you  not  to  know.  Them 
was  liver  pills  that  my  uncle  made,  and  twice, 
when  I  was  a-feeling  a  little  bilious,  I  bought 
some  and  took  'em,  and  they  never  did  me 
the  least  mite  of  good.  I  Ve  heard  other 
folks  say  the  same  thing,  and  my  opinion  is 
that  they  was  a  humbug." 

She  brought  out  the  words  strongly.  It  is 
a  serious  thing  to  blacken  a  man's  character 
after  he  is  dead,  and  this  is  what  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  doing.  She  was  depriv- 
ing him  of  h'is  memorial,  for,  of  course,  Mr. 
Gray  would  n't  want  anything  "  to  remember 
him  by,"  if  his  pills  were  fraudulent. 

Mr.  Gray  hesitated  a  minute.  "  I  don't 
think,"  he  said,  "  I  would  allow  that  to  influ- 
ence me,  Miss  Atherton.  It  hardly  seems 
personal  enough.  If  you  should  decide  to 
present  something  to  our  little  church  in 
memory  of  your  uncle,  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  help  you  select  it.  We  need  new  win- 
dows, a  new  lectern,  in  fact,  everything;  and, 
above  all,  a  bell." 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON' S  BELL.       267 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I'd  like  to,  real 
well.  Seems  to  me  a  bell  would  be  the 
best ;  it 's  shaped  kinder  like  a  pill,  you 
know." 

Mr.  Gray  rose  hastily.  "  Think  it  over, 
Miss  Atherton,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  will  see  you 
again." 

So  he  left  her,  and  Miss  Polly  sat  alone  in 
her  little  kitchen  in  the  gathering  twilight. 
She  slipped  one  of  the  covers  of  the  stove 
off  a  little,  and  the  red  coals  glowed  in  a 
fiery  semicircle  below,  giving  out  a  bright 
light. 

She  was  fascinated  with  Mr.  Gray's  idea. 
She  was  by  nature  a  very  generous  woman, 
one  who  would  have  been  a  Lady  Bountiful 
but  for  the  stern  grip  of  poverty.  Now,  all 
at  once,  she  could  know  the  luxury  of  giving, 
and  of  giving  to  the  church,  too.  That 
seemed  to  her  the  very  summit  of  benefac- 
tion. She,  Polly  Atherton,  poor,  lonely,  and 
of  low  estate,  could  give  a  bell,  bearing  her 
family  name,  to  the  church,  and  the  whole 
congregation  would  thank  her,  and  all  Mor- 
tonville  would  hear  it  ring.  It  was  a  very 
attractive  picture. 

"  I  guess  those  Presbyterians  will  wish  I  'd 
stayed  in  their  church,"  she  murmured  to  her- 


268       MISS  POLLY  A  THE R TON'S  BELL. 

self,  and  she  sat  up  very  straight  and  scorn- 
ful at  the  thought  of  them. 

It  was  an  unworthy  but  a  very  human 
thought.  She  could  quite  picture  her  whilom 
brothers  and  sisters  of  the  Presbyterian  faith 
in  their  bell-less  meeting-house  listening  to 
the  Episcopal  bell  —  her  bell  —  as  it  floated 
out  in  silvery  tones  upon  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing air.  Yes,  she  would  give  one ;  she  was 
quite  decided  and  sure  about  it  now. 

Of  course,  when  her  intentions  became 
known,  she  became  very  interesting  and  pop- 
ular. Many  people  came  to  see  her  who  had 
never  come  before.  She  was  invited  to  join 
societies  and  classes  that  she  had  never  even 
heard  of,  and  the  congregation  of  St.  John's 
Church,  Mortonville,  took  her  by  the  hand, 
as  it  were,  and  placed  her  upon  a  social  pin- 
nacle. Only  one  person,  old  Judge  Bryon, 
expostulated  with  her. 

"  Do  you  know,  Miss  Atherton,"  he  said 
sternly,  "that  this  bell  business  is  going  to 
take  about  a  quarter  of  the  money  your 
uncle  left  you?" 

"I  don't  know  quite  how  much  it's  going 
to  take,  judge,"  she  answered ;  "  but  I  don't 
care.  Folks  spends  money  differently  ;  some 
cares  for  fine  horses  and  carriages  and  sich- 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.  269 

like,  and  others  puts  it  all  on  their  backs. 
Now  I  expect  to  live  and  die  in  this  house. 
I  aint  a-goin'  to  make  any  change  in  my  manner 
of  living,  'cept  I  did  think  I  'd  take  a  quart  o' 
milk  a  day  instead  of  a  pint,  and  have  the 
front  fence  painted.  And  I  can't  think  of 
anything  that  '11  please  me  more  than  to  hear 
that  bell  a-ringing  and  a-pealing  out,  and  to 
know  that  I  put  it  there." 

So  the  judge  left  her,  silenced  if  not 
convinced. 

In  November  Miss  Atherton  made  the 
most  exciting  journey  of  her  life,  —  she  went 
to  Troy  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gray  to  select  the 
bell.  Their  expenses  were  paid  by  the  con- 
gregation, and  the  trip  seemed  to  her  to 
combine  all  the  romance  of  an  elopement 
with  the  sanctity  of  a  religious  pilgrimage. 
TQ  be  sure,  Mrs.  Howard,  the  wife  of  the 
senior  warden,  went  too ;  but  that  rather 
added  to  than  lessened  Miss  Polly's  excite- 
ment. They  all  lunched  together  before  they 
went  to  the  factory,  where  they  were 
expected,  and  received  with  every  honor. 

Miss  Polly  was  introduced  to  every  one, 
all  questions  were  referred  to  her,  and  it  was 
made  plain  to  everybody  that  it  was  through 
her  liberality  the  bell  was  to  be  purchased ; 


2/0       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

and  she  was  treated  accordingly.  There  was 
much  to  decide  upon,  —-  size,  shape,  and  tone, 
besides  the  equally  important  matter  to  Miss 
Polly  of  decoration  and  inscription.  She 
passed  by  a  bell  engraved  with  I.  H.  S., 
innocently  remarking  that  she  did  n't  care 
for  "  His  "  on  it.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Gray  turned 
almost  purple  at  this;  but  her  thought  was 
reverent  enough.  She  had  always  supposed 
so  many  things  in  the  church  were  marked 
His  because  they  belonged  to  Him,  and  per- 
haps this  arrangement  of  the  letters  was  more 
intelligent  and  sweet  to  her  than  their  true 
significance  would  have  been. 

She  finally  selected  a  very  beautiful  bell, 
much  larger  and  heavier  than  she  had  at  first 
intended  to  give.  There  was  a  little  orna- 
mental beading  around  the  rim  of  it,  but  Mr. 
Gray  did  not  allude  to  this.  He  felt  sure 
Miss  Polly  had  picked  it  out  because  of  this 
very  beading  and  its  unmistakable  likeness  to 
pills,  and  he  was  only  afraid  she  might  men- 
tion it. 

The  inscription,  the  texts  of  Scripture,  etc., 
were  all  arranged,  and  the  little  party  left, 
Miss  Polly  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  happiness. 
She  had  thought  of  it  so  much  that  her  bell 
now  seemed  to  her  the  most  important  thing 
in  the  world. 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       2/1 

It  was  unfortunate  that  John  Gleason 
should  come  to  see  her  just  after  this  trip  to 
Troy.  He  had  been  a  Mortonville  boy  years 
ago,  and  a  great  many  people  thought  he 
would  marry  Miss  Polly.  But  he  didn't;  he 
had  married  Kate  Wygant,  and  taken  her 
away  with  him  to  another  State.  She  had 
died  recently,  and  John  and  his  children 
often  came  back  to  his  old  home,  where 
his  mother  and  his  wife's  mother  still 
lived.  Miss  Polly  was  generally  glad  to 
see  him,  but  this  time  his  visit  seemed  like 
an  interruption. 

She  told  him  all  about  her  bell,  but  he  lis- 
tened indifferently,  almost  impatiently.  She 
was  feeling  a  little  hurt  at  his  lack  of  sym- 
pathy, when  he  suddenly  said,  — 

"  Polly,  do  you  remember  that  sleigh-ride 
and  dancing-party  out  to  Steven's  Tavern, 
just  seventeen  years  ago  ?  You  and  me  was 
in  a  cutter." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  remember." 

"And  George  Hinckley  and  his  load  got 
upset  along  there  by  the  Dawson  farm,  and 
his  sleigh  was  all  knocked  into  kindling 
wood,  and  him  and  the  rest  of  his  party  got 
in  wherever  they  could  with  the  other 
loads?" 


2/2       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  again ;  "  how  it  all 
comes  back !  " 

"  Well,  do  you  remember  how  Dave 
Hinckley  came  and  got  in  with  us,  —  set 
right  down  between  us,  and  chinned  you  all 
the  rest  of  the  way  home,  so  I  could  n't  git 
in  a  word  ?  " 

Miss  Polly  smiled,  and  nodded. 

"  Well,"  he  continued  slowly,  "  I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  was  so  mad  at  any  one  as  I 
was  at  him.  You  see,  Polly,  I  'd  calculated 
to  say  something  to  you  on  the  way  home, 
got  it  all  planned  and  fixed,  and  then  that 
great  lummux  must  needs  come  piling  down 
on  top  of  us  !  And  the  worst  of  it  was,  you 
seemed  to  care  a  great  deal  more  about  what 
he  said  than,  you  did  about  me.  I  was  mad 
that  night,  Polly,  mad  clean  through.  I  just 
shut  my  teeth  kinder  tight,  and  I  says  to 
myself,  '  Well,  if  she  wants  her  Dave  Hinck- 
leys  so  bad,  let  her  have  'em  ; '  and  the  next 
day  I  went  off  and  asked  Kate  Wygant  if 
she  'd  marry  me,  and  she  said  '  Yes.'  " 

He  made  quite  a  long  pause,  and  then 
went  on,  with  a  sigh,  "  'T  aint  right  to  say 
nothing  agin  the  dead,  and  Kate  made  me 
a  good  faithful  wife ;  but,  Polly,  't  was  you  I 
wanted  all  the  time." 


MISS  POLLY  A  THE R TON'S  BELL. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Her  face 
grew  very  red. 

"  Polly,"  he  began  awkwardly,  "  is  it  any 
use?  Is  it  too  late  now?  I  never  saw  a 
woman  I  liked  so  much  as  I  do  you.  I  know 
I  aint  any  great  shakes,  but  I  've  got  a  pretty 
good  home ;  and  if  you  '11  only  come  and  live 
in  it,  and  take  care  of  my  children,  and  stay 
there  with  me,  I  think  I  'd  be  the  happiest 
man  in  all  creation." 

Miss  Polly  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't !  "  she  gasped.  There 
was  an  embarrassed  silence. 

"Well,"  he  said  resignedly,  "I  didn't 
much  suppose  you  would;  but  why  can't 
you,  Polly  ?  Is  it  that  you  don't  want  to 
get  married  anyway,  or  just  that  you  can't 
bear  me  ? " 

Miss  Polly  shook  her  head  at  him  mourn- 
fully. "  'T  aint  that,"  she  said  brokenly  ; 
"  but  I  just  can't.  I  was  n't  expecting  it,  and 
I  can't  seem  to  bring  my  mind  to  it." 

She  spoke  more  truly  than  she  knew.  She 
was  essentially  a  one-idea  person,  able  to 
pursue  and  hold  on  to  that  idea  with  great 
energy,  but  not  capable  of  a  broad  grasp  of 
other  subjects  at  the  same  time.  Of  late  her 
relations  with  the  church  had  completely 
18 


2/4       M7SS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

absorbed  her;  she  could  not  suddenly  turn 
away  from  the  friends  she  had  made,  the 
honor  she  was  receiving,  and  from  the  church 
whose  benefactress  she  had  become. 

She  liked  John,  —  yes;  but  her  mind 
moved  steadily  on  in  its  accustomed  track. 
She  could  not  force  it  all  at  once  to  compre- 
hend a  different  life  in  another  place. 

"Well,  Polly,"  said  her  suitor,  patiently, 
"  I  aint  a-going  to  give  you  up  jist  yet.  I 
need  a  wife,  and  my  little  children  want  a 
mother ;  but  I  sha'n't  be  in  a  hurry  yet 
awhile.  If  any  time  —  say  for  six  or  eight 
months  —  you  should  think  better  of  it,  you 
let  me  know." 

Miss  Polly  saw  nothing  ridiculous  in  his 
keeping  the  situation  open  for  her,  so  to 
speak.  It  only  struck  her  that  he  was  very 
good. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  '11  let  you 
know." 

"You  promise?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  promise." 

He  rose  to  go,  but  stood  for  a  few  seconds, 
looking  at  her. 

"Polly,"  he  said  suddenly,  "will  you  kiss 
me  ? " 

"Oh,  dear,  no !  "  she  almost  screamed,  and 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       2/5 

got  behind  the  rocking-chair,  while  her 
cheeks  burned. 

"  Well,"  he  said  placidly,  "  never  mind ;  I 
did  n't  think  you  would."  He  held  out  his 
hand,  and  she  took  it  over  the  back  of  the 
chair.  "  Good-by,"  he  said ;  "  remember, 
you've  promised." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Good-by."  He 
went  out  into  the  little  hallway,  while  she 
stood  watching  him.  When  his  hand  was  on 
the  door-knob,  she  called  sharply,  "  John  !  " 

He  came  back,  and  she  met  him  at  the 
door  of  her  little  parlor.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  she  was  tremulous  with  excitement.  She 
lifted  her  face  suddenly,  and  kissed  him  on 
the  cheek,  then  fled  precipitately  down  the 
hall.  It  was  the  merest  dab  of  a  kiss,  badly 
aimed,  imperfectly  executed,  and  abandoned 
before  its  completion;  but  John  Gleason 
went  down  the  street  with  a  queer  smile  on 
his  face.  As  for  Miss  Polly,  she  sat  alone 
in  the  twilight  for  a  long  time,  and  cried  a 
little. 

The  bell  arrived,  and  was  hung  in  position. 
It  was  decided  to  consecrate  it  and  have  it 
rung  for  the  first  time  on  Christmas  Day;  but 
the  little  parish  was  honored  the  last  week 
in  Advent  by  a  visit  from  the  Bishop,  and 


2/6       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

the  Rev.  Mr.  Gray  suddenly  arranged  to  have 
the  consecration  then.  He  had  frequent  and 
earnest  conversations  with  Miss  Polly.  He 
consulted  her  about  the  hymns,  and  several 
minor  points  in  the  service.  It  was  agreed 
that  after  the  prayer  of  consecration  the  bell 
should  be  rung,  and  Mr.  Gray  thought  it 
would  be  exceedingly  appropriate  if  Miss 
Polly  should  ring  it  herself. 

She  had  pledged  herself  heart  and  soul  to 
her  minister,  her  church,  and  her  bell,  and 
would  have  meekly  done  anything  that  the 
first  had  suggested.  She  was  a  little  nervous 
when  the  day  finally  came.  The  Bishop 
frightened  her.  His  voice  was  rich  and 
sonorous,  and  she  was  not  accustomed  to 
that  kind  of  voice  ;  and  then  his  sleeves 
seemed  to  be  unnecessarily  big.  Several 
clergymen  from  neighboring  parishes  had 
been  invited  and  had  come  to  the  service, 
and  there  was  quite  an  imposing  little  pro- 
cession of  white-robed  priests. 

Most  of  the  service  was  held  in  the 
church;  but  at  a  certain  time  the  Bishop  and 
clergymen,  followed  by  Miss  Polly  and  sev- 
eral of  the  congregation,  adjourned  to  the 
bottom  of  the  tower,  where  the  bell-rope 
hung,  and  certain  prayers  were  offered  there. 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       277 

Finally  the  time  arrived  for  her  to  ring  the 
bell.  Mr.  Gray  touched  her  gently  upon  the 
arm;  and  she  stepped  forward,  quite  rigid 
with  excitement,  her  mouth  compressed,  and 
a  pink  spot  shining  on  each  cheek.  It  was 
the  supreme  moment  of  her  life.  She  seized 
the  bell-rope  well  up,  and  pulled  with  all 
her  force  ;  and  then,  to  the  astonishment  of 
every  one,  she  slowly  left  the  floor  and 
mounted  into  the  air.  The  bell  was  so  heavy 
that  in  its  rebound  it  lifted  her  with  it.  In  a 
few  seconds  she  was  back  again ;  but  she 
never  released  her  grip  or  relaxed  her  rigid- 
ity, so  up  she  went  again.  Every  one  was 
so  surprised  at  this  unlooked-for  variation  to 
the  ceremony  that  no  one  did  anything. 

"  Catch  her,  Gray,  can't  you  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  visiting  clergy,  who  stood  behind  the 
rector. 

"  Ca-ca-catch  what  ? "  stammered  Mr.  Gray, 
who  was  almost  knocked  into  a  state  of 
imbecility  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the 
occurrence. 

But  just  here  the  good  Bishop  took  a  sense 
of  the  situation,  and  stepping  forward,  seized 
Miss  Polly  as  she  descended  for  the  third 
time,  and  forcibly  pulled  her  away  from  the 
rope. 


2/8       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

The  service  went  on  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Miss  Polly  never  knew  how  she  got 
back  into  the  church,  nor  did  she  hear  when 
the  Bishop  referred  to  her  in  his  address  as 
"  that  noble-hearted  woman."  The  world  was 
a  blank  to  her.  She  was  conscious  of  but 
one  thing,  and  that  the  most  poignant  of 
human  emotions,  —  disgrace,  intense  and 
acute.  All  her  pride  and  pleasure,  her  little 
harmless  vanity,  had  vanished.  She  only 
wanted  to  get  home  and  cry.  At  the  very 
proudest  moment  of  her  life  her  happiness 
had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes.  She  went 
home  with  a  heart-broken,  miserable  sense 
of  failure. 

Along  in  the  afternoon  one  of  her  neigh- 
bors called,  —  a  garrulous,  tactless  woman, 
with  a  high  voice,  and  an  inadequate  number 
of  front  teeth.  Miss  Polly  let  her  in  herself. 
She  was  quite  pale,  and  she  looked  much 
older  than  she  had  done  the  day  before. 

"Well,  Miss  Atherton,"  said  her  visitor, 
cheerfully,  "  I  jist  run  in  to  see  how  you 
was.  My  Mary  was  down  to  the  church 
this  morning,  and  she  was  a-telling  me  how 
you  went  up  with  the  bell.  It  must  have 
been  awful  mortifying,  —  before  all  them 
people,  too.  I  tried  to  git  Mary  to  tell  me 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       2/9 

all  about  it,  but  she  could  n't  see  very  well, 
being  in  the  crowd,  and  so  I  just  thought 
I  'd  come  in  and  ask  you  yourself."  She 
smiled  expansively,  exhibiting  her  one  front 
tooth ;  but  Miss  Polly  did  not  answer. 
"  'Bout  how  high  did  you  go  up  ?  "  continued 
the  inquisitor,  —  "  'bout  so  high  ?  "  and  she 
measured  off  a  goodly  space  on  the  casing 
of  the  door. 

Miss  Polly's  eyes  flashed.  It  was  a  little 
too  cruel  to  expect  her  to  measure  off  in  her 
own  kitchen,  on  her  own  door,  the  exact 
extent  of  her  calamity. 

"  Sarah  Louise  Taylor,"  she  said  solemnly, 
"  I  aint  a-going  to  say  one  word  about  it ;  and 
if  that 's  all  you  come  in  to  see  me  about,  I 
guess  you  'd  better  be  going." 

"  Land  sakes !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Taylor. 
"  How  touchy  you  be !  I  did  n't  mean  no 
harm  ;  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  mind." 

"  Mind,    Sarah    Taylor !  "    ejaculated    Miss 

Polly,  — "  mind  !     I  guess  you  'd  mind  if  you 

went  a-galloping  up    in  the    air   before   the 

Bishop  and  all  the  folks  like  a  —  a  —  like  a 

-vulture!" 

She  brought  out  the  last  word  with  cumu- 
lative energy,  and  seemed  to  like  the  sound 
of  it.  Nevertheless  she  refused  to  discuss 


280       MISS  POLLY  A  THE R  TON'S  BELL. 

her  accident  any  further,  and  after  a  short 
call  her  visitor  left. 

When  she  had  gone,  a  great  loneliness  fell 
upon  Miss  Polly,  for  the  Valley  of  Humilia- 
tion is  a  lonely  place,  and  she  was  walking 
through  it  now.  Her  sense  of  mortification 
and  disgrace  became  so  strong  that  it  did 
not  seem  as  if  she  could  endure  it.  Her 
soul  cried  out  for  a  little  love  and  sympathy, 
if  only  to  restore  her  self-respect.  It  is  the 
"  stricken  deer,"  forsaken  by  the  herd,  that 
needs  a  protecting  bosom  to  rest  in,  and  in 
her  wounded  pride  and  loneliness  she  thought 
of  John  Gleason. 

Something  seemed  to  revive  in  her  heart 
at  the  thought  of  him.  The  wilted,  shame- 
faced look  which  she  had  worn  ever  since 
her  unlucky  experience  entirely  departed. 
She  sat  upright,  and  presently  she  smiled. 
Finally  she  got  out  a  small  box  of  paper, 
and,  after  much  reflection,  she  wrote  a  little 
note.  It  was  a  very  reserved  and  dignified 
document,  in  which  she  simply  told  him  that 
if  he  cared  to  take  the  trouble  to  come  to 
Mortonville  again,  she  would  be  very  glad  to 
see  him.  She  went  out  and  posted  this  note, 
her  crape  veil  closely  covering  her  face  ;  and 
when  she  came  home  she  deliberately  locked 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL.       28 1 

her  front  door  behind  her,  and  then  walked 
straight  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  proceeded 
to  muffle  the  bell.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
door-bell,  attached  to  a  spring  of  wire.  She 
bound  a  cloth  around  the  clapper,  and  then 
surveyed  it  complacently. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  I  've  had  enough  of 
bells  for  one  while.  Let  'em  get  in  now  if 
they  can ;  "  and  for  the  next  two  days  when 
her  bell-wire  moved  and  jerked,  and  the  bell 
quivered  soundlessly  in  the  air,  she  would 
gaze  at  it  composedly,  never  making  the 
least  effort  to  admit  her  caller.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  when  some  particularly  energetic 
person  rang  repeatedly,  she  would  look  up  at 
the  vibrating  noiseless  bell  and  say,  with 
sarcasm,  "  Mighty  anxious  to  git  in,  aint 
you  ?  Well,  you  can't !  " 

But  on  the  third  day  she  changed  her 
tactics.  She  watched  the  bell  nervously,  and 
at  its  faintest  tremor  she  betook  herself  to 
her  parlor,  from  which  vantage-ground  she 
commanded  a  view  of  her  front  steps,  remain- 
ing herself  unseen. 

It  was  about  noon  that  the  figure  she  had 
been  looking  for  appeared.  She  distinctly 
saw  John  Gleason  standing  on  her  front 
steps.  She  waited  for  one  dreadful  moment, 


282       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

undecided  whether  to  let  him  in  or  to  turn 
and  ignominiously  flee  by  the  back  door. 
Then,  with  a  pale  face  and  a  quick-beating 
heart,  she  turned  the  key,  and  he  stood 
before  her.  She  had  prepared  several  little 
speeches  with  which  to  meet  him  ;  but  she 
did  n't  manage  to  make  any  of  them,  for  in 
an  instant  almost  she  found  his  arms  around 
her,  and  she  was  sobbing  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  John !  Oh,  John !  "  she  cried ; 
and  "  Polly,  dear  Polly !  "  he  answered,  as 
incoherently. 

He  did  n't  seem  to  require  any  explana- 
tion ;  but  she  felt  that  honesty  compelled  her 
to  give  him  one,  and  so,  still  with  his  arms 
around  her,  she  told  her  pitiful  little  story. 

"Oh,  John,  I  have  been  a  wicked  woman! 
I  was  so  took  up  with  my  money,  and  giving 
to  the  church,  and  the  bell,  and  all  that,  that 
I  did  n't  treat  you  as  I  ought  to ;  but  I  've 
been  punished,  terribly  punished,  for  my 
sins.  When  they  took  that  bell,  they  wanted 
me  to  ring  it,  and  I  thought  of  course  I 
could,  —  I  was  that  bumptious,  —  and,  John, 
I  went  up,  a-swinging  in  the  air  like  a 
monkey,  right  before  the  Bishop  and  all  the 
people,  and  I  did  n't  have  sense  enough  to 
let  go,  and  I  went  up  twice,  John  ;  and  I 


MISS  POLLY  ATHERJVN'S  BELL.       283 

might  have  been  a-teetering  up  and  down 
there  to  this  minute  if  the  Bishop  had  n't 
a-grabbed  me.  Oh,  John,  it  was  awful !  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  handker- 
chief and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Did  n't  any  of  'em  know  enough  to  take 
care  of  you,"  he  said  indignantly,  — - "  a  little 
woman  like  you?" 

"  It  served  me  right,"  she  said  solemnly ; 
"you  know  pride  goes  before  a  fall,  and  I 
was  so  proud  and  puffed  up,  and  I  had  my 
fall,  John,  —  I  had  my  fall." 

"  I  should  n't  call  it  that  exactly,"  he  said, 
while  a  twinkle  gleamed  for  a  minute  in  his 
eyes.  Then  he  drew  her  closer  to  him.  "  No 
matter,  Polly,"  he  said,  "  no  matter.  If  you  '11 
only  have  me  now,  we  '11  forget  all  about 
it." 

"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  want  me,"  she 
said,  with  fine  tragic  scorn,  —  "a  fool  that 
goes  around  the  country  swinging  on  the 
ends  of  ropes."  Then,  as  the  memory  of  her 
involuntary  ascension  overpowered  her  again, 
she  gasped,  "  Oh,  John,  take  me  away  !  Take 
me  away !  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  ever  bear 
to  hear  that  bell  again.  The  very  sound  of 
it  makes  me  weak  and  sick  and  trembly." 

"  Polly,"  he  said  gently,  "  don't  you  think 


284       MISS  POLLY  ATHERTON'S  BELL. 

you  could  bear  to  listen  to  it  just  once  more, 
if  it  was  ringing  for  our  wedding,  dear?  " 

She  hung  her  head,  and  said  she  thought 
she  could. 

So  Miss  Polly  Atherton's  bell  made  her 
the  only  atonement  in  its  power  when  it  rang 
out  gayly  on  her  wedding-day. 


UNCLE   NATHAN'S   EAR-TRUMPET.1 

"  "QUT,  Tom,  can  we  afford  it?  " 

•*-*  "  Annie  Thomas  Randall,"  said  her 
husband,  solemnly,  "  I  believe  you  were  born 
asking  that  question.  Can  we  afford  it? 
Certainly  ;  we  must,  we  shall !  " 

"  Dear  Tom,"  she  answered  meekly,  "  I 
have  always  admired  you  when  you  speak  in 
that  masterful  way.  It  used  to  carry  convic- 
tion to  my  soul.  I  still  admire  you,  but  I 
.am  no  longer  convinced." 

He  laughed,  and  put  his  arm  around  her. 
"  This  is  not  an  extravagance,  my  dear ;  it  is 
an  economy.  Grandmother  has  left  me  the 
farm.  John  Bushnell  is  carrying  it  on,  as  he 
has  done  for  years.  He  lives,  with  his  large 
and  interesting  family,  in  the  tenant  house. 
The  farmhouse  proper  is  vacant.  We  will 
go  there,  spend  the  summer,  have  a  good 
time  and  a  new  experience,  sell  the  farm  by 
fall,  if  possible,  and  come  home  richer  and 
wiser  for  our  summer  outing." 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Harper's  Bazar." 


286       UNCLE   NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

"  But,  Tom,  the  children.  They  seem  to 
have  '  accoomerlated  '  like  Sararann's." 

"  Bring  'em  along.  Let  them  see  some- 
thing for  once  that  there  's  enough  of,  as  the 
old  woman  said  of  the  sea.  Why,  they  '11 
remember  it  all  their  lives.  And,  Annie,  you 
never  lived  in  the  country,  did  you?  You  '11 
enjoy  it,  too." 

"  I  should  like  to  get  away,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  I  think  I'm  a  little  tired  of 
conventionalities  and  stereotyped  ideas.  It 's 
pleasant  enough  here,  and  I  'm  sure  we  're 
very  happy  ;  but  I  think  we  're  all  more  or 
less  manufactured  articles.  Seems  to  me 
country  people  must  be  simpler,  more  spon- 
taneous and  individual.  I  'd  like  to  meet  a 
few  pure  primal  impulses." 

Tom  looked  doubtful.  "  I  don't  remember," 
he  said,  "  that  the  people  of  Selden  ever 
impressed  me  as  being  particularly  high 
types  of  humanity  or  glaringly  simple,  but  I 
think  you  '11  like  them.  Dear  me,  how  glad 
I  '11  be  to  see  the  old  place  again !  " 

His  face  beamed  with  anticipation,  for 
Tom  Randall  was  subject  to  enthusiasm.  He 
and  his  wife  had  both  outlived  the  fever,  of 
youth,  but  had  frequent  relapses  into  it, 
which  warmed  their  hearts  and  shone  in  their 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       287 

faces.  He  was  a  professor  in  one  of  the 
Eastern  colleges,  a  scholarly,  refined  sort  of 
man,  who  had  written  a  book  or  two,  and 
was,  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way,  well  known. 

His  wife  had  been  a  school-teacher,  a 
pretty  intellectual  girl,  who  had  spent  most 
of  her  life  in  Boston.  They  were  poor,  —  not 
so  much  actually,  as  because  they  belonged  to 
that  great  class  wittily  described  as  possessing 
"  a  champagne  appetite  on  a  beer  income." 
The  good  things  which  they  craved  and 
could  have  appreciated  sparkled  just  beyond 
their  reach,  and  made  the  good  things  near 
at  hand  seem  flat  and  stale. 

They  were  both  a  little  tired  of  their 
surroundings,  and  the  prospect  of  a  sum- 
mer spent  on  a  farm  of  their  own  in  New 
England  seemed  very  alluring.  It  was  full 
of  possibilities. 

It  was  a  warm  night  in  May  when  they 
arrived.  The  apple-trees  were  in  blossom, 
and  though  it  was  too  dark  to  see  them,  one 
was  conscious  of  their  presence.  They  went 
at  once  to  their  house,  which  had  been 
opened  and  made  ready  for  them.  Annie 
was -enthusiastic  about  everything. 

"  Why,  Tom,  it  actually  smells  different !  " 
she  exclaimed.  She  was  eating  her  supper 


288        UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

when  she  spoke,  and  had  just  taken  a  bite  of 
bread  and  butter.  It  was  hopelessly  sour. 
"  It  tastes  different  too,"  she  said  quietly, 
and  laid  the  bread  aside. 

Tom  laughed  a  little.  "  I  don't  know  how 
you  're  going  to  manage,  Annie,"  he  said. 
"  There  is  n't  a  servant  in  Selden,  and  we  're 
three  miles  from  the  village." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,"  she  answered  confidently. 

Tom  made  up  a  face  himself  just  then  at 
a  rather  large  mouthful  of  the  bread.  "  I  '11 
bet  a  dollar,"  he  gasped,  "that's  Mrs.  Dob 
Saunders's  bread.  It  was  always  sour  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  the  years  don't  seem  to 
have  sweetened  it." 

"  Mrs.  Dob  Saunders !  What  a  singular 
name !  " 

"  So  it  is,"  he  said  slowly,  as  if  noticing  it 
for  the  first  time ;  "  but  I  never  heard  her 
called  anything  else.  She  lives  across  the 
way;  old  Uncle  Nathan  is  next  to  her,  and 
the  Tenneys  are  on  our  right." 

"Old  Uncle  who?" 

"  He  is  n't  a  relation,  dear,  but  everybody 
called  him  Uncle  Nathan  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  I  don't  believe  they  Ve  changed.  He 
lives  with  his  widowed  daughter,  Mrs. 
Kiddell," 


UNCL  E   NA  THA  N  'S  EA  K-  TR  UMPE  T.       289 

"  Will  they  all  call  on  me  ?  " 

"Certainly,  and  you  must  go  and  return 
all  the  calls ;  they  '11  expect  it." 

But  Annie  Randall  met  her  new  neighbors 
without  formalities.  By  noon  the  next  day- 
she  had  seen  them  all. 

Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  labored  hospitably 
over  with  a  fresh  loaf  of  sour  bread  under 
her  arm.  She  was  the  most  enormous 
woman  that  Annie  had  ever  seen  outside  of 
a  circus  tent.  She  hastened  to  present  her 
stout  visitor  with  a  chair,  devoutly  hoping 
that  its  underpinnings  were  strong. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  so  good 
of  you  to  come." 

Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  seated  herself  with  a 
"  sickening  thud."  She  breathed  heavily, 
and  her  good-natured  kindly  face  was  red  ' 
and  shiny.  "  I  'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  she 
said  heartily.  "  The  house  has  seemed  kind 
o'  lonesome  since  old  Mis'  Randall  died." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  be  here,"  answered 
Annie,  "  and  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  wanted 
to  ask  the  advice  of  some  of  my  neighbors. 
I  need  everything,  —  groceries,  and  meat,  and 
a  painter,  and  a  carpenter,  and,  most  of  all, 
a  servant." 

Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  stiffened   slightly.     It 
19 


290       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

was  as  if  a  quiver  should  run  through  a  form 
of  jelly.  "  Help  's  very  scarce  around  here," 
she  said  with  dignity ;  "  most  folks  prefer  to 
do  their  own  work." 

Annie  was  conscious  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake.  "  Servant"  was  a  word  not  used  in 
this  locality. 

"  Aint  your  back  strong?"  continued  Mrs. 
Saunders,  before  she  could  speak.  "  Dob 
had  a  bad  spell  with  his  'long  'bout  in  March ; 
but  I  rubbed  it  well  with  opidildoc,  and  made 
him  set  before  the  fire  while  it  was  a-striking 
in,  and  it  fetched  him  round  in  no  time. 
Opidildoc  's  splendid,  if  you  've  got  a  lame 
back." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  said  Annie ; 
and  then  changed  the  subject  hastily  by  ask- 
ing: "Can  I  buy  some  eggs  around  here? 
I  find  Mr.  Bushnell  sold  all  his  yesterday." 

"  Mis'  Kiddell  might  let  you  have  some ; 
but "  —  she  hesitated  a  moment  —  "I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  tell  you  she's  dreadful  near." 

"  Near?  "  asked  Annie,  vaguely. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  ; 
"  she 's  the  nearest  woman  I  ever  see.  Why, 
last  year  one  of  her  squash  vines  crawled 
under  the  fence,  and  come  along  in  our 
garden.  Our  squashes  did  n't  'mount  to 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       2QI 

much  last  year,  —  they  was  sowed  too  early, 
and  sort  o'  frost-killed  ;  and  this  vine  had 
one  good  middlin'-sized  squash  on  it,  and 
what  does  Mis'  Kiddell  do,  soon  as  that 
squash  is  ripe,  but  come  a-traipsing  over  and 
cut  it?  —  and  she  with  a  hull  patch  full  of  'em  ! 
I  've  called  her  '  old  Mis'  Squash '  ever 
since." 

Annie  laughed.  "  Has  she  any  children  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  she 's  got  one  daughter,  —  Emme- 
line.  She  's  a  nice  girl  too,  but  Mis'  Kiddell 's 
dreadful  mean  to  her.  She  don't  get  her 
any  nice  clothes  nor  anything.  Why,  my 
Gertie  she  had  two  ginghams  and  a  sateen 
and  a  bunting  last  year,  and  just  last  week 
I  got  her  a  new  sun  umbrell !  " 

She  spoke  not  boastfully,  but  as  if  her 
neighbor's  niggardliness  were  all  the  blacker 
beside  such  liberality  as  this. 

After  a  few  more  remarks  she  took  her 
leave,  and  Annie  watched  her  as  she  ploughed 
her  way  toward  the  gate,  like  a  heavily-laden 
brig  beating  against  a  head  wind. 

When  Tom  came  home  at  night,  Annie 
met  him  with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  am  launched  on 
Selden  society.  I  have  had  a  call  from  Mrs. 


292        UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

Dob  Saunders,  Burt  Tenney  is  going  to  paint 
the  dining-room,  Emmeline  Kiddell  will  help 
me  with  the  children's  sewing,  and  Mrs. 
Kiddell  has  sold  me  a  dozen  eggs." 

"  Go  on,"  said  her  husband,  who  saw  that 
she  had  not  finished. 

"Tom,"  she  said  solemnly,  "you  won't 
believe  me,  but  that  woman  said  eggs  '  was 
fifteen  cents  a  dozen,  but  she  guessed  she  'd 
have  to  charge  me  sixteen,  'cause  she  was 
almost  sure  one  of  'em  had  a  double  yolk  ' !  " 

"  And  had  it  ? "  he  asked  calmly. 

"  I  don't  know.  Bobby  dropped  the 
basket  bringing  it  home,  and  every  egg  might 
have  been  twins  or  triplets  for  all  that  I  could 
tell.  But,  Tom,  just  think  of  it!  I  thought 
I  'd  squeezed  a  cent  till  the  Indian  yelled, 
but  I  never  dreamed  of  such  thrift  as  this. 
Why,  Tom,  it's  worth  coming  here  just  to 
learn  how  rich  we  are.  I  haven't  felt  so 
affluent  in  years.  It  is  going  to  make  me 
very  unpopular  if  I  keep  a  servant;  but  I 
really  must.  We  will  drive  over  to  the 
village  to-morrow,  and  see  what  we  can 
find." 

She  finally  secured  an  ill-favored  looking 
girl,  who  at  first  insisted  upon  eating  with 
the  family.  She  relinquished  this  right  after 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       293 

a  little  debate,  provided  she  might  eat  in  the 
dining-room  after  the  family  had  finished. 
This  glorious  privilege  Mrs.  Randall  granted, 
and  Martha  was  installed.  She  was  a  very 
haughty  person,  who  did  her  work  in  a  dis- 
dainful, contemptuous  fashion,  which  laid 
Mrs.  Randall  under  perpetual  obligations. 
She  subsequently  discovered  that  the  girl 
was  subject  to  fits,  which  had  much  lessened 
her  commercial  value  in  the  village,  and  it 
was  only  on  this  account  that  she  had  secured 
her  at  all. 

The  first  Sunday  after  they  arrived  in 
Selden,  Tom  and  Annie  took  a  walk  across 
the  fields.  It  was  a  beautiful  spring  day,  and 
he  showed  her  with  keen  pleasure  the  old 
covered  bridge  where  he  used  to  play  when 
a  boy,  and  from  whose  crumbling  piers  he 
had  often  fished.  He  showed  her  the  swim- 
ming-hole where  he  and  the  other  boys  went 
swimming  twenty  odd  years  ago,  and  the 
chestnut-trees  that  he  and  these  same  boys 
had  robbed. 

There  is  nothing  more  delightful  to  a  man 
than  revisiting  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  or 
recalling  anecdotes  of  that  far-off  Arcadia; 
and  when  his  companion  is  sympathetic,— 
above  all,  when  she  is  the  woman  he  loves, — 


2Q4       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

his  delight  is  most  satisfying  and  expan- 
sive. There  is  something  subtly  flattering  in 
her  interest  in  the  little  boy  that  he  was. 

Tom  Randall  thoroughly  enjoyed  this  Sun- 
day-morning stroll,  and  felt  that  he  had  read 
to  Annie  one  of  the  earliest  chapters  of  his 
life.  They  were  coming  home  across  lots, 
and  he  had  just  helped  her  over  a  fence, 
when  they  noticed  an  odd-looking  figure  sit- 
ting motionless  in  a  corner  of  the  field. 

"  I  believe  that 's  old  Uncle  Nathan,"  said 
Tom.  "  Annie,  we  must  go  across  and  speak 
to  him." 

So  they  walked  over  to  where  the  old  man 
sat  upon  an  overturned  harrow,  solitary  and 
apparently  forlorn.  He  wore  a  queer  old- 
fashioned  coat  that  suggested  the  rhyme  of 
"  Old  Grimes  is  dead  "  to  Annie  ;  and  as  they 
came  nearer  they  observed  a  few  little  patches 
of  lather  upon  his  face. 

"  Jerushy  's  just  shaved  him,"  said  Tom ; 
"  that 's  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Kiddell.  She 
always  does  it  on  Sundays.  Poor  old  man, 
no  wonder  he  looks  melancholy  !  " 

Then,  as  they  went  up  to  him,  Tom  shouted, 
with  such  energy  that  Annie  fairly  jumped, 

"  Well,  Uncle  Nathan,  how  are  you  ?  " 

The  old   man's  hand  went  up  to  his  ear. 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       295 

"  Haouw? "  he  said  meekly,  and  Tom  re- 
peated his  remark  with  even  greater  vigor. 

"  He 's  deaf  as  a  post,  Annie,"  he  explained  ; 
"you'll  have  to  crack  your  throat."  Then 
he  shouted  :  "  This  is  my  wife,  Uncle  Nathan. 
What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

The  old  man  eyed  Annie  doubtfully.  "  I 
thought  she  would  be  fatter,"  he  said  in  a 
feeble  treble,  shaking  his  head  slowly,  but 
whether  with  disapprobation  or  palsy,  Annie 
could  not  determine. 

"  What  does  he  take  me  for,  Tom,"  she 
asked,  —  "a  prize  sheep  at  a  fair?  " 

"  Haouw?"  said  Uncle  Nathan  again,  see- 
ing her  lips  move. 

"  You  must  come  over  and  see  us," 
screamed  Tom,  hospitably.  "  We  '11  be  very 
glad  to  see  you." 

"  No  one  likes  to  see  me  round  no  more," 
he  said  sadly.  "  I  've  got  so  old,  no  one 
likes  to  talk  to  me.  Jerushy  she  don't  seem 
to  like  to  talk  to  me  no  more.  She  cut  my 
ear  this  morning,  and  never  seemed  to  think 
I  felt  it.  I  guess  I  Ve  got  feelin's  if  I  be 
old." 

There  was  an  embarrassed  silence. 

"  Say  something  to  him  quick,  Tom," 
murmured  Annie. 


296       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  Uncle  Nathan," 
floundered  Tom,  helplessly  —  "confound  it! 
—  we  're  all  getting  old,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  but  not  so  old  as  I  be." 

Tom  could  not  but  feel  the  truth  of  this. 
"  You  Ve  got  your  children  and  your  grand- 
children to  comfort  you,"  he  said,  and  gazed 
reproachfully  at  Annie.  A  platitude  never 
sounds  so  badly  as  when  you  scream  it;  but 
she  had  just  nudged  him,  and  he  dared  not 
be  silent. 

"  Yes,  Jerushy  means  well,"  said  the  old 
man,  in  his  quavering  voice  ;  "  she  's  a  power- 
ful smart  woman,  but  it  seems  as  if  she 
would  n't  let  me  have  nothing  that  I  want. 
I  wanted  a  new  hat  this  spring;  but  Jerushy 
said  no,  the  .old  one  would  do,  and  she  went 
and  patched  it  in  the  crown  where  there  was 
a  hole,  and  there  aint  no  style  to  it  at  all." 
He  took  it  off  mournfully  as  he  spoke,  and 
they  all  gazed  at  it  in  silence.  He  put  it  on 
again  with  a  sigh,  and  continued  queru- 
lously :  "  I  used  to  have  some  money,  but  I 
don't  know  what's  become  of  it.  Jerushy 
says  what's  the  use  of  my  having  money 
when  I  'm  so  old.  She  seems  to  think  I  'd 
be  reckless  with  it,  but  I  know  better.  Then 
there 's  Em'line.  She  's  a  nice  girl,  a  very 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       297 

nice  girl.  I  wanted  to  get  her  a  new  dress 
last  Christmas,  but  Jerushy  said  no,  the  ones 
she  'd  got  would  do.  She  said  she  'd  get  me 
something  to  give  to  Em'line,  but  she  did  n't 
get  nothing  but  a  pair  of  gums,  and  they 
was  so  big  Jerushy  wore  'em  most  of  the 
time  herself;  so  Em'line  didn't  get  nothing, 
after  all.  I  felt  real  bad,  'cause  Em'line  's 
a  nice  girl,  and  I  wanted  her  to  have  a  new 
dress." 

He  paused  in  his  complainings,  and  Tom 
said  quickly,  — 

"  Emmeline's  coming  over  to  see  my  wife. 
You  must  come  with  her.  Good-morning;" 
and  then  they  left  the  old  man,  and  walked 
across  the  field  in  silence. 

Tom  looked  up  suddenly,  and  saw  tears 
glistening  in  Annie's  eyes. 

"  Why,  Annie,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it  is  hideous !  That 
poor  old  man  sitting  alone  on  that  harrow, 
with  those  dabs  of  lather  on  his  face !  And 
nobody  wanting  to  talk  to  him  any  more, 
and  his  ridiculous  cap,  and  those  '  gums.' 
Why,  Tom,  it  hurts  me.  I  want  to  do 
something." 

Tom  pulled  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and 
held  it  there.  "  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "  they 


298        UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

don't  suffer  as  you  think  they  do.  You  see 
it  all  from  your  own  point  of  view.  To-day, 
I  grant  you,  was  a  sort  of  blue  Sunday  for 
Uncle  Nathan  ;  but  ordinarily  he  's  as  happy 
as  any  old  gentleman  on  Beacon  Street." 

Annie  shook  her  head.  She  was  not  yet 
adjusted  to  her  surroundings.  The  people 
appealed  so  strongly  to  her  that  it  was  as 
she  said, —  it  really  "  hurt"  her. 

Shortly  after  this  Burt  Tenney  came  over 
to  do  a  little  painting.  He  was  a  young 
man,  tall  and  straight,  with  a  handsome  face. 
He  was  awkward  and  heavy  in  his  move- 
ments, and  very  clumsy  in  his  speech.  He 
seemed  to  hack  out  each  sentence  as  if  he 
were  cutting  wood ;  but  Annie  found  him 
intelligent  enough  in  his  business,  and  under 
her  directions  he  painted  her  pantry  and 
closet  shelves,  and  touched  up  things  a  little 
here  and  there. 

She  had  opened  an  old  fireplace  in  her 
parlor,  and  had  him  paint  the  wood-work 
around  it  a  dark  Venetian  red.  On  this  she 
put,  in  rustic  letters  which  she  had  fashioned 
herself  out  of  bark,  the  legend,  "  While  I  was 
musing,  the  fire  burned." 

Tenney,  who  was  painting  in  another  part 
of  the  room,  watched  her  as  she  fastened 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       299 

each  letter  in  place,  and  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, he  rose  and  read  it  slowly :  "  '  While 
I  was  mussing,  the  fire  burned.'  I  declare ! 
Aint  that  pretty?" 

Annie  was  so  overcome  by  his  unexpected 
rendering  of  her  motto  that  she  hastily  left 
the  room,  and  ran  into  Emmeline  Kiddell, 
who  had  just  come  in  with  a  little  bundle  of 
work  in  her  hands.  She  was  helping  Annie 
with  the  children's  summer  sewing,  for  which 
there  had  been  no  time  before  the  Randalls 
left  home. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Randall,"  she  said,  "  will  you 
look  at  these  little  petticoats,  and  see  if  the 
tucks  are  right  ?  " 

Annie,  Burt  Tenney's  "  mussing  "  still  ring- 
ing in  her  ears,  answered,  with  an  uncalled-for 
giggle :  "  Oh,  I  Ve  no  doubt  they  are  very 
nice.  Burt  Tenney  has  just  painted  the 
parlor  mantel-piece.  Won't  you  come  in  and 
see  it?" 

Emmeline  suddenly  became  very  straight 
and  stiff.  Her  face  blazed.  "No,"  she 
exclaimed  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  see  him  !  " 

There  was  something  in  her  sudden  emo- 
tion so  genuine  that  Annie  respected  it. 
"  Come  in  here,"  she  said  gently,  and  led 
the  way  into  her  own  bedroom,  where  she 


300       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

began  to  untie  the  bundle  so  that  Emmeline 
might  have  a  few  minutes  to  recover  herself. 

But  the  heightened  color  remained  in  the 
girl's  cheeks,  and  pretty  soon  she  laid  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Emmeline,"  said  Annie,  hesitatingly, 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?  Can  I  help  you  ?  I 
will  if  I  can." 

The  girl  still  cried ;  but  when  Annie  touched 
her  gently,  murmuring  words  of  sympathy, 
she  lifted  her  tearful  eyes,  and  said,  in  a 
burst  of  confidence:  "Oh,  no  one  can  help 
me !  It 's  Burt  Tenney.  He  used  to  keep 
company  with  me.  He  came  every  Sunday 
night  And  now  he  does  n't  care  any  more ! 
He 's  going  with  Mary  Merrit,  up  to  the 
corners.  Sometimes  I  almost  hate  her !  " 

Annie  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  Do  you 
love  him  so  much  ? "  she  asked.  Then  it 
seemed  to  her  a  very  brutal  question,  and  she 
grew  hot  with  shame  that  she  had  asked  it. 

But  Emmeline  didn't  mind.  Still  she 
did  n't  answer,  but  only  looked  at  Annie 
mutely  and  appealingly,  and  then  hid  her 
face  again. 

"  Emmeline,"  said  Annie  at  last,  "  I  will 
help  you  if  I  can.  Be  brave  and  patient. 
Even  if  he  never  cares,  it  is  better  that  this 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       301 

should  come  to  you.  Your  life  is  deeper ; 
you  are  better  for  it.  Believe  me,  for  I  know 
that  it  is  so." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  sadly,  but  trust- 
ingly ;  and  Annie  took  one  of  her  hands  and 
held  it  with  a  gentle  pressure. 

When  she  had  left,  and  Annie  went  back 
in  the  parlor,  Burt  Tenney  was  still  at  work. 
Annie  had  a  distinct  feeling  of  dislike  to  him. 
The  careful,  monotonous  way  in  which  he 
handled  his  brush  maddened  her. 

She  began  to  arrange  some  photographs 
upon  a  little  rack.  Suddenly  she  turned  to 
him  with  a  bright  look,  and  said  smilingly, 
"  They  tell  me  you  are  going  to  be  married, 
Burt,  before  long.  I  hope  we  will  be  here  at 
your  wedding." 

He  did  not  answer;  but  a  sort  of  shy, 
ashamed  look  crept  over  his  handsome 
features. 

"  Is  Miss  Merrit  pretty  ? "  she  went  on; 
recklessly.  "  Of  course  you  would  think  so  ; 
but  is  she  really  as  pretty,  say,  as  Emmeline 
Kiddell  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered  grimly,  "  she  aint ; 
but  she  's  going  to  have  a  splendid  farm  up 
to  the  corners  one  of  these  days." 

"  Oh !  "  continued  Annie,  lightly,  still  pre- 


3O2        UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

tending  to  be  busy  with  her  photographs, 
"  so  it 's  her  farm  you  are  in  love  with,  eh?  " 

"  I  like  her  well  enough,"  he  answered 
gloomily. 

"But  you  like  Emmeline  Kiddell  better," 
said  Annie,  airily.  She  was  frightened  at 
her  own  audacity,  and  a  little  exhilarated. 
There  are  no  edged  tools  so  fascinating  to 
play  with  as  another  person's  feelings. 

He  glanced  at  her  for  a  second,  surprised  ; 
then  he  seemed  to  accept  her  remark  with- 
out anger.  "  Emmeline's  grandfather  's  so 
deaf,"  he  said  calmly;  "and  she  says  who- 
ever takes  her  has  got  to  take  him  too.  She 
won't  leave  him  ever." 

Annie  looked  at  him  a  minute  with  flash- 
ing eyes.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  asked 
quickly,  "  that  she  puts  her  duty  to  that  poor 
old  man  above  her  happiness?  Why,  she  is 
a  heroine,  —  a  noble,  beautiful  soul !  " 

"  He 's  awful  deaf,"  said  Tenney,  phleg- 
matically. 

Annie  looked  at  him  contemptuously. 
Then  she  felt  a  strong  desire  to  laugh.  "  I 
don't  see  what  his  deafness  has  to  do  with 
it,"  she  said  coldly. 

Burt  Tenney  stopped  painting  and  held 
his  brush  in  his  hand.  "  P'r'aps  I  would  n't 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       303 

have  felt  so,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  if  ma's 
father  had  n't  been  just  the  same  way.  He 
lived  with  us  ten  years,  and  we  had  to  holler 
at  him  all  the  time  ;  and  after  a  while,  pa 
used  to  go  out  to  the  barn  and  get  drunk. 
Seems  as  if  he  could  n't  find  a  quiet  spot  in 
the  house.  I  just  made  up  my  mind  I 
could  n't  start  out  in  life  with  no  such  deaf 
person  fastened  onto  me." 

Annie  felt  a  quick  acute  sympathy  for  him. 
She  disliked  deaf  persons  herself.  Then  she 
remembered  Mary  Merrit's  acres,  and  her 
sympathy  grew  chilly. 

"  Besides  a  deaf  grandfather  whom  she 
insists  upon  taking  care  of,  Emmeline  Kid- 
dell  has  no  fortune,  and  it  seems  Miss 
Merrit  has." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered ;  "  I  Ve  thought  of 
that.  A  man  ought  to  do  the  best  he  can 
for  himself." 

He  had  resumed  his  painting,  and  spoke 
as  placidly  as  if  he  were  announcing  the 
•most  noble  sentiments. 

Mrs.  Randall  looked  at  him  with  keen 
reproach.  These  were  the  feelings  that  she 
had  come  "  near  to  Nature's  heart "  to  find  ! 
"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  she  said  hotly, 
"  that  there  have  been  men  in  the  world  who 


304       UNCLE   NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

have  loved  a  woman  so  dearly  that  they  would 
have  been  glad  to  die  for  her?  They  didn't 
stop  to  think  if  they  were  making  a  good 
bargain,  and  it  would  n't  have  mattered  if  all 
her  relatives  were  deaf,  or  'blind,  or  crippled, 
—  or  anything.  They  loved  her,  —  her  for 
her  own  sake  alone,  because  she  was  the  one 
woman  in  all  the  world  for  them.  They 
would  no  more  have  thought  of  leaving  her 
for  some  one  with  more  money  than  they 
would  have  thought  of  leaving  heaven  for 
hell.  They  were  glad  to  care  for  her,  to  work 
for  her,  to  suffer  for  her.  They  asked  nothing 
of  her  but  her  love ;  and  if  she  gave  them  that, 
they  counted  their  lives  blessed,  no  matter 
how  much  pain  and  sorrow  were  in  them. 
Such  a  love  is  glorious.  It  changes  a  man 
from  an  animal  to  a  spirit ;  it  is  the  most 
godlike  thing  on  earth.  But  I  don't  suppose 
you  ever  heard  of  anything  of  the  kind  in 
all  your  life,  or  could  understand  it  if  you 
should." 

The  man  started  to  his  feet,  as  if  lashed 
into  action  by  the  cool  contempt  of  her  last 
words.  "  Yes,  I  can,"  he  exclaimed  excit- 
edly;  "  and,  by  the  Lord,  that 's  the  kind  I  'm 
going  to  have !  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  pale,  fixed  face. 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       305 

She  was  thoroughly  frightened.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  had  done  more  than  call,  "  O 
spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,"  —  she  had  roused 
a  human  soul ;  and  she  trembled  at  her  work. 
It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned 
around  leisurely,  and  began  to  gather  up  his 
paints  and  brushes. 

"  Mis'  Randall,"  he  said,  in  his  ordinary 
tone,  "  I  '11  come  over  to-morrow  and  finish 
this  job.  I  aint  got  paint  enough  mixed  to 
go  on  with  it." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  " 
she  asked  herself  after  he  had  left ;  and  her 
mind  was  disquieted  within  her  till  Tom  came 
home,  and  she  could  pour  the  whole  story 
into  his  sympathetic  ear. 

He  laughed  a  good  deal.  "  Annie,  has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you,"  he  said,  "  that  human 
hearts  are  about  as  dangerous  pies  for  you  to 
put  your  finger  in  as  any  that  exist?  You 
may  make  the  blackbirds  sing,  and  you  may 
pull  out  a  big  plum  ;  but  the  probabilities  are 
you  will  only  make  an  indigestible  mess." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  meekly. 

"  It 's  curious,"  he  added,  after  a  pause, 
"  how  old  Uncle  Nathan's  affairs  seem  to  run 
across  ours.  I  was  in  the  County  Clerk's 

20 


306       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

office  to-day,  looking  up  the  title  to  this  farm, 
and  I  saw  three  or  four  mortgages  recorded 
in  his  name.  Why,  Annie,  he  's  rich  !  —  that 
is,  for  Selden.  But  they  say  Jerushy  always 
collects  the  interest,  and  I  don't  suppose  he 
ever  sees  a  cent  of  it.  Probably  he  forgets 
all  about  it." 

"Then,"  said  Annie,  suddenly,  "if  Burt 
Tenney  should  marry  Emmeline,  Uncle 
Nathan  wouldn't  be  such  a  burden  upon 
them,  after  all." 

"  There  you  go  again,"  said  Tom,  laughing, 
"  with  your  finger  in  the  pie.  You  'd  "better 
try  to  cure  his  deafness  now,  or  else  kill  him 
entirely,  so  as  to  say,  '  Bless  you,  my  children, 
bless  you !  '  more  effectively." 

"  I  will,"  she  exclaimed,  with  energy,  —  "I 
will!" 

The  next  day,  when  her  husband,  who 
generally  drove  to  town  each  morning  for  the 
marketing  and  the  mail,  returned,  she  met 
him  with  the  look  of  one  who  has  adventures 
to  relate. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  had  looked 
over  her  letters,  "  Uncle  Nathan  has  been 
here  all  the  morning." 

"Has  he,  indeed?  No  wonder  you're  a 
little  hoarse." 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       307 

"  I  have  been  experimenting  with  that  one 
front  tooth  of  his." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  You  asked  me  why  I  did  n't  cure  his 
deafness,  and  so  I  thought  I  'd  try.  I  was 
wondering  if  that  lonely  tooth  could  stand 
the  responsibility  of  an  audiphone,  and  I  Ve 
been  tying  strings  and  rubbers  around  it,  and 
vibrating  them." 

"  Annie,  I  wonder  at  your  hardihood  !  " 

"  Oh,  7  did  n't  really.  He  did  the  adjust- 
ing himself;  and,  Tom,  I  think  you  would 
have  died  to  see  old  Uncle  Nathan,  with  a 
string  around  his  one  front  tooth,  and  me 
riddling  on  the  other  end  !  '  Can  you  hear 
anything?'  said  I.  'Yes,'  he  answered; 
'seems  as  if  I  heard  something  a-jumping.' 
But  I  don't  think  an  audiphone  will  do,  Tom. 
It  needs  a  firmer  foundation  to  rest  upon 
than  that  veteran  incisor.  But  I  Ve  written  to 
New  York  for  all  the  newest  phones  and 
trumpets  and  performances,  and  I  'm  going 
to  make  that  old  man  hear,  if  it  takes  my 
bottom  dollar."  She  was  silent  a  minute, 
and  then  continued  :  "Just  think  of  it !  If  he 
could  only  hear,  I  believe  Burt  Tenney  would 
marry  Emmeline.  It  seems  so  absurd,  —  an 
ear-trumpet  in  the  path  of  true  love !  " 


3  08        UNCLE  NA  THAN'S  EA  R-  TR  UMPE  T. 

Tom  looked  at  her  smilingly.  He  put 
his  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her  toward 
him. 

"  Annie,"  he  said  tenderly,  "  you  are  tak- 
ing a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  these  young 
people.  Suppose  Burt  marries  the  other  girl, 
what  difference  will  it  make?  If  he  marries 
Emmeline,  their  romance  will  be  over  in  less 
than  a  year.  Is  love's  young  dream  worth 
all  your  trouble,  dear?" 

Annie  was  over  thirty.  There  were  some 
gray  hairs  in  the  fluffy  curls  over  her  fore- 
head, and  in  a  strong  light  one  could  see  a 
few  fine  wrinkles  on  her  soft  skin ;  but  a  happy 
light  shone  in  her  eyes  at  her  husband's 
question.  She  rested  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  said  softly,  — 

"  It  is  worth  everything  in  the  world,  dear, 
—  worth  everything." 

The  ear-trumpets  came  before  long,  and 
were  unpacked  with  much  enthusiasm  by  the 
young  Randalls,  who  seemed  to  regard  them 
as  a  new  kind  of  mechanical  toy. 

Uncle  Nathan  sat  patiently  in  the  middle 
of  the  circle,  submitting  silently  to  having 
each  one  adjusted,  and  shaking  his  head  sol- 
emnly as  it  was  removed. 

"  He  tried  them  all  on,"  said  Annie  to  Tom 


UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET.       309 

afterward,  "  as  if  they  were  spring  bonnets, 
and  he  could  n't  find  a  becoming  one." 

They  were  all  failures,  —  all  but  one  gor- 
geous affair,  brilliant  with  nickel  plate,  and 
having  an  unusual  number  of  adjustments 
and  attachments.  With  this  appended  to  his 
long-suffering  ear,  he  gazed  in  astonishment 
at  the  little  Randalls  as  they  stood  in  a  row 
before  him,  all  ready  to  speak  their  pieces  and 
prove  the  success  of  the  instrument. 

"  Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  half  a  league 
onward,"  yelled  Bobby,  with  much  earnestness; 
but  he  was  interrupted  by  Ned,  who  said : 

"  Shut  up,  Bobby  !  He  would  n't  know 
what  a  league  was  anyway,  even  if  he  could 
hear.  Talk  sense,  like  me.  '  Up  from  the 
South  at  break  of  day '  -  -  Do  you  hear  me, 
Uncle  Nathan?  —  'bringing  to  Winchester 
fresh  dismay  '  -  —  Do  you  know  what  I  'm  say- 
ing? —  '  the  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  — 

"  Oh,  Ned,"  interrupted  Mary,  "  don't  talk 
poetry  to  him."  Then  she  elevated  her  own 
voice,  and  said,  with  a  clear  emphasis,  and 
the  air  of  reciting  a  French  exercise,  "  Uncle 
Nathan,  it's  a  pleasant  day,  is  n't  it?  I  hope 
you  are  feeling  well !  " 

The  poor  old  man  looked  more  and  more 
bewildered.  "  Seems  as  if  I  could  hear,"  he 


3IO       UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

said,  with  a  frightened  look ;  "  but,  Lord,  how 
queer  they  talk  !  " 

"  Children,"  said  Annie,  severely,  "  he  can't 
tell  whether  he  's  deaf  or  you  're  crazy.  Go 
out  now,  every  single  one  of  you,  and  let  me 
attend  to  this." 

So  the  little  Randalls  departed,  tumbling 
over  each  other's  heels  as  they  went. 

"Can  you  hear  me?"  said  Annie,  in  an 
ordinary  tone  of  voice,  after  they  were  alone. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  tremulously,  "  I 
ken.  How  much  is  this  machine?" 

Annie  colored.  It  was  the  most  expensive 
of  all.  "  Thirty  dollars,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Thirty  dollars  !  Oh  my  !  oh  my !  That 's 
a  lot  of  money  !  Thirty  dollars  !  " 

"  Uncle  'Nathan,"  said  Annie,  kindly,  "  I 
want  to  give  it  to  you.  You  take  it  now  and 
go  home,  and  see  if  you  really  can  hear  any 
better  with  it,  and  if  you  can,  I  think  it  will 
be  a  great  comfort  to  you." 

He  did  not  thank  her;  he  seemed  too 
dazed.  He  put  his  restored  sense  under  his 
arm,  and  went  feebly  down  the  driveway. 

Annie  began  to  gather  up  the  other  instru- 
ments, and  replace  them  in  their  boxes.  She 
sighed  a  little.  "  I  can't  afford  it,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  I  know  I  can't ;  but  then  —  I 


UNCLE  NA  THAN'S  EAR-  TR  UMPE  T.       311 

must."  Before  she  had  finished  collecting  the 
things  and  repacking  them,  she  looked  up  in 
astonishment,  for  Uncle  Nathan  stood  before 
her.  He  seemed  tired  and  discouraged. 

"  Jerushy  says,"  he  began,  without  any 
preface,  "  that  't  aint  proper  for  me  to  take 
no  machine  from  you  that  costs  as  much  as 
thirty  dollars." 

"  Would  she  rather  you  paid  for  it  your- 
self?" asked  Annie. 

"  No,"  he  answered  wearily.  "  Jerushy 
says  T  don't  hear  thirty  dollars'  worth  better 
anyway." 

Annie  was  surprised.  Was  it  worth  while, 
after  all,  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  people  who 
received  it  in  so  ungracious  a  spirit?  Sud- 
denly she  said :  "  Uncle  Nathan,  I  can  take 
that  nickel-plated  handle  off.  That  makes  a 
difference  of  five  dollars  in  the  price,  and  it 
does  n't  affect  the  hearing  part  at  all.  I  wish 
you  would  let  me  give  it  to  you  just  as  it  is ; 
but  if  you  won't,  perhaps  you  will  feel  like 
buying  it  yourself  if  it  is  a  little  cheaper." 

"  I  '11  go  back  and  tell  Jerushy,"  he  said 
gloomily,  and  again  he  departed. 

Annie  watched  him  out  of  sight,  feeling  a 
little  discouraged  herself.  There  is  no  gas  so 
volatile  as  enthusiasm.  She  felt  as  if  hers 


312        UNCLE  NATHANS  EAR-TRUMPET. 

had  been  left  uncorked  and  had  all  evaporated. 
She  was  not  surprised  when  the  old  man 
returned.  "  Well?  "  she  asked  languidly. 

"  Jerushy  says  I  don't  hear  twenty-five 
dollars'  worth  better,"  he  quavered  sadly. 
"  She  says  there  aint  no  use  in  my  trying  to 
hear  at  all." 

Annie  took  the  instrument  from  him,  and 
examined  it  carefully.  "  There  is  one  other 
thing  I  can  unscrew,"  she  said,  after  consult- 
ing her  letter  of  directions.  "  You  won't 
hear  quite  so  well,  but  it  will  make  it  five 
dollars  cheaper." 

She  had  no  idea  that  the  old  man  would 
buy  the  instrument  at  any  price,  or  that  he 
would  let  her  give  it  to  him  ;  but  a  sense  of 
the  ridiculousness  of  the  whole  situation 
was  beginning  to  steal  over  her,  and  her 
spirits  rose.  She  was  no  longer  benevolently 
enthusiastic ;  she  was  amused.  "  I  feel  like 
Abraham,"  she  said  to  herself,  "when  he 
argued  with  the  Lord,  and  '  beat  him  down 
considerable.'  I  would  like  to  dissect  that 
thing  to  its  last  bone ;  but  I  fear  it 's  reduced 
to  its  simplest  expression  now." 

She  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing  when 
the  old  man  came  back  on  his  third  trip. 

"  'T  aint  no  use,"  he  said  abjectly.     "  Jeru- 


UNCLE  NA  THAN'S  EAR- TR UMPE T.       313 

shy  says  I  don't  hear  even  twenty  dollars' 
worth  better." 

"  Well,"  said  Annie,  "  give  it  to  me.  I  '11 
send  it  back  with  the  others." 

The  old  man  looked  at  it  wistfully.  "  Seems 
like  I  could  hear  as  good  as  ever  that  first 
time,"  he  murmured  plaintively.  "  Of  course 
folks  would  be  more  willing  to  talk  to  me  if  I 
could  hear  some." 

"  Uncle  Nathan,"  said  Annie,  with  decision, 
"  I  want  to  give  it  to  you.  It  is  n't  Jerushy's 
affair  at  all ;  it 's  yours  and  mine.  Now  if  I 
choose  to  offer  it,  and  you  choose  to  take  it, 
it 's  no  one's  else  business." 

Uncle  Nathan  looked  frightened.  "  Oh, 
no  !  "  he  said  —  "  oh,  no  !  Jerushy  said 
'twould  n't  be  proper.  Besides,  she  said  I 
did  n't  hear  thirty  dollars'  worth  better. 
Seems  to  me  I  did,  but  Jerushy  she  said 
no." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Annie;  "  give  it  to 
me." 

The  next  morning  Tom  took  the  box  of 
instruments  to  the  express  office,  —  all  but 
one;  he  did  not  know  it,  but  the  thirty- 
dollar  article  was  reposing  on  the  top  shelf 
of  Annie's  closet. 

"  I  shall  make  Uncle  Nathan  take  it  yet," 


3 1 4       UNCLE  NA  THA N'S  EAR- TRUMPE  T. 

she  thought.  "  I  know  I  can't  afford  it,  but 
I  must." 

It  was  fully  a  month  after  this  when 
Emmeline  Kiddell  came  over  one  morning. 
Annie  watched  her  as  she  came  up  the  curv- 
ing driveway. 

"  How  pretty  she  is !  "  she  thought,  — "  pret- 
tier even  than  when  we  first  came." 

But  there  was  a  reason  for  the  added  pret- 
tiness  this  morning.  Annie  was  conscious 
of  it  at  once,  and  was  not  surprised  when 
Emmeline  said: 

"  Mrs.  Randall,  I  don't  know  how  to  tell 
you,  but  it 's  all  right  between  Burt  Tenney 
and  me.  He  is  n't  going  to  marry  Mary 
Merrit,  and  he  wants  to  marry  me.  He 
wants  it  should  be  soon,  too ;  next  month,  if 
I  can  get  ready." 

"  You  can,  can't  you  ?  "  cried  Annie.  "  Oh, 
do ;  before  we  go.  I  '11  help  you  all  I  can. 
I  would  love  to  go  to  your  wedding  before 
we  leave  Selden." 

The  girl  flushed  and  bit  her  lip,  while  the 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Ran- 
dall," she  said,  "you  don't  know  how  good 
he  is !  He  wants  grandpa  to  live  with  us. 
He  's  going  to  try  and  rent  half  of  your  farm, 
if  Mr.  Bushnell  '11  take  the  other  half.  I 


UNCLE  NA  THAN'S  EAR- TRUMPE T.       315 

don't  know  why  I  'm  crying  when  I  'm  so 
happy." 

Annie  kissed  her  almost  solemnly.  "  God 
bless  you,  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  keep  you 
happy  always !  " 

She  was  a  little  awed,  now  that  the  things 
she  had  so  much  desired  had  really  come  to 
pass.  Then  she  thought  of  poor  old  Uncle 
Nathan ;  and  in  a  twinkling  her  mind  had 
flown  to  the  top  shelf  in  her  closet,  and  upon 
the  ear-trumpet.  She  knew  now  why  she 
had  kept  it,  —  it  would  be  Emmeline  Kid- 
dell's  wedding  present. 

They  were  married  in  September;  a 
strange  sort  of  wedding  it  seemed  to  Annie, 
who  was  not  used  to  country  festivities.  The 
cambric  covers  were  removed  for  this  one 
occasion  from  the  piano  legs,  and  it  was 
allowed  to  display  its  chaste  members 
unblushingly.  Some  scarlet  geraniums  were 
compactly  pressed  into  a  tall  vase ;  but  these 
were  the  only  evidences  of  decoration. 

Annie  wore  a  white  gown,  and  felt  out  of 
place  among  the  black  alpacas  and  cashmeres 
which  appeared.  Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  alone 
kept  her  company,  in  a  gray  camel's-hair, 
trimmed  with  six  dozen  bright  steel  buttons. 
She  was,  Tom  said,  "  immense." 


3 1 6       UNCLE  NA  THA  N'S  EAR-  TR  UMPE  T. 

All  of  the  guests  seemed  preternaturally 
solemn ;  and  after  the  simple  ceremony  they 
formed  in  line,  and  filing  past  the  bride,  they 
kissed  her  heartily.  Annie  felt  sorry  for  her ; 
her  pretty  face  grew  so  flushed  and  shiny 
under  these  repeated  salutes. 

Annie  tried  to  promenade  among  the  fur- 
niture, and  engage  in  light  conversation ;  but 
it  was  evidently  not  the  custom. 

It  seemed  that  Uncle  Nathan  had  a  son 
who  was  a  sailor,  and  there  were  various  little 
souvenirs  of  his  different  voyages  about  the 
house.  On  the  mantel-piece  were  some 
branches  of  white  coral,  a  few  shells,  and 
some  carved  ivory  images.  Annie  examined 
them  attentively,  and  Uncle  Nathan  said  of 
each,  in  his  melancholy  quaver : 

"  I  don't  just  remember  what  that  is.  If 
my  boy  John  was  here,  he'd  tell  you;  but 
John  aint  here." 

Finally,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  shelf,  Annie 
noticed  a  whale's  tooth  curiously  carved. 
The  old  man's  face  brightened  as  he  saw 
it  in  her  hand. 

"  That,"  he  said,  with  tremulous  eagerness, 
"  I  do  know.  John  told  me.  That  there 's  a 
pee-lican's  tooth !  " 

Annie  was  overcome  at  this  information, 
and  barely  retained  her  composure. 


UNCLE  NA  THAN'S  EAR- TRUMPE  T.       317 

"  It  was  so  ridiculous,"  she  said  to  Tom 
afterward.  "  that  after  all  the  toothy  time  I 
have  had  with  that  poor  old  man,  his  last 
words  to  me  should  be  about  that  pee-lican. 
Can't  you  just  see  the  bird  plucking  its  breast 
for  its  young  with  this  large  carved  tooth 
projecting  from  its  lower  bill !  " 

Tom  had  wrested  all  the  old  man's  property 
from  his  daughter's  clutches,  and  arranged  it 
so  that  he  should  have  the  whole  benefit  of  it 
during  his  lifetime.  After  that  it  was  to  go 
to  Emmeline. 

Annie  had  given  her,  with  many  laughs 
and  jokes,  the  nickel-plated  ear-trumpet, 
which  was  to  restore  her  grandfather's  hear- 
ing ;  and  so,  relieved  of  his  poverty  and  his 
deafness,  he  would  not  be  an  incubus  upon 
the  new  household. 

Emmeline's  happiness  was  almost  pitiful. 
Burt  had  rented  the  Randall  farm  for  three 
years,  and  Mrs.  Dob  Saunders  remarked,  with 
much  good-humor,  that  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  "  like  as  not,  it  would  be  his  *n,"  —  a 
prophecy  which  came  true. 

"  I  think  we  Ve  just  been  guardian  angels, 
Tom,"  said  Annie,  "  and  we  'd  better  flap  our 
wings  and  fly  away  before  we  kick  the  pail 
over." 


3l8        UNCLE  NATHAN'S  EAR-TRUMPET. 

"The  what?"  said  Tom.  "Aren't  you 
mixing  up  angels  and  cows  a  little  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Annie,  "  if  I  am.  It 's 
been  a  lovely  summer,  and  I  'm  sorry  enough 
it 's  over." 

It  was  many  years  before  they  came  to 
Selden  again,  and  Emmeline's  children  were 
running  over  the  old  place.  Annie  realized 
that  their  father  had  been  a  prophet  years 
before,  for  there  was  more  "  mussing  "  than 
"  musing"  going  on  before  the  old  fireplace 
now. 

Uncle  Nathan  was  dead,  and  Jerushy — the 
redoubtable  Jerushy  —  had  grown  deaf  in  her 
turn  now,  and  was  wearing  his  ear-trumpet. 
She  flushed,  and  looked  ashamed  and  con- 
scious, when  she  saw  Annie,  and  tried  to  hide 
the  ear-trumpet  under  her  apron ;  but  it  was 
too  big. 

"  I  wonder,"  thought  Annie,  with  fine  scorn, 
"  if  she  hears  thirty  dollars'  worth  better." 


THE   TURNING   OF  THE   WORM.1 

TOHN  ROGERS  looked  impatiently  at  the 
*^  clock.  He  had  waited  now  exactly  half 
an  hour,  and  was  beginning  to  get  a  little 
restless.  "  Half  past  eleven  is  a  pretty  hour 
to  go  to  a  party !  "  he  muttered  to  himself. 
He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  floor,  and 
then  stopped  suddenly  as  he  heard  a  light 
step  on  the  stairs.  He  moved  toward  the 
door ;  but  the  light  faded  from  his  face  as  a 
trim  maid  entered,  bearing  a  great  bunch  of 
yellow  roses  in  her  hand. 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  but  mam'- 
selle  say  it  is  impossible  that  she  should  carry 
the  yellow  rose." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"  She  want  that  you  should  them  change  — 
make  pink;  it  is  the  pink  rose  that  mam'- 
selle  prefer  to-night." 

"Oh,  she  wants  pink  roses,  does  she? 
Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  where  I  can  get  any 
at  twelve  o'clock  at  night." 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Harper's  Bazar." 


32O  THE   TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

"  The  shop  of  the  flower-man  is  two  cor- 
ners off,  if  monsieur  will  go ;  and  it  is 
La  France  roses  that  mam'selle  must  have 
to-night,  and  she  will  be  quite  ready  on  the 
return  of  monsieur." 

So  John  Rogers  took  his  yellow  roses  and 
bundled  into  his  carriage,  not  in  the  most 
amiable  frame  of  mind.  All  his  annoyance 
disappeared,  however,  when  he  came  back 
and  found  that  Miss  Cora  Fenton  was  indeed 
ready.  She  stood  in  the  drawing-room  pull- 
ing on  her  long  gloves,  —  a  vision  of  rosy 
loveliness.  Her  white  neck  and  arms  rose 
out  of  a  pink  fleecy  cloud,  and  fairly  dazzled 
him. 

"  Such  a  shame  to  keep  you  waiting !  "  she 
cried  ;  "  but  I  never  had  such  a  miserable 
time  getting  into  my  clothes  before.  Every- 
thing seemed  bewitched,  and  my  hair  looks 
like  a  fiend's  now.  I  was  so  sorry  about  the 
roses ;  but  you  see  yourself  it  would  have 
been  enough  to  give  one  a  headache  with 
yellow  roses  and  this  dress." 

Her  maid  threw  her  long  cloak  around  her, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  seated  side 
by  side  on  their  way  to  Mrs.  Dillingham's 
cotillon. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  John  Rogers 


THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM.         321 

had  been  her  escort ;  but  he  was  just  begin- 
ning to  realize  how  bitter-sweet  a  pleasure  it 
was.  He  was  an  old  friend,  so  old  and  trusted 
that  often  he  went  with  her,  as  to-night,  with- 
out a  chaperon. 

She  was  "poor  Cora  Fenton  "  in  this,  —  that 
although  young,  beautiful,  and  an  heiress,  she 
was  an  orphan,  and  in  a  certain  sense  without 
a  home.  To  be  sure,  her  brother  with  whom 
she  lived  was  devoted  to  her ;  but  he  cared 
very  little  for  the  society  that  she  loved,  and 
his  wife  was  entirely  engrossed  with  the  four 
little  children,  who  all  seemed  to  be  babies  at 
once. 

Cora  felt  dimly  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
them  both  if  she  were  married  and  estab- 
lished in  a  home  of  her  own ;  and  perhaps  it 
was  this  very  feeling  that  made  her  so  wilful 
and  hard  to  please.  No  girl  likes  to  be 
driven  along  the  matrimonial  path.  She 
prefers  to  be  guided,  and  by  nothing  less 
masterful  than  fate  itself.  She  knew  per- 
fectly well  how  satisfied  every  one  would  be 
if  she  should  marry  John  Rogers,  and  the 
thought  of  their  satisfaction  irritated  her. 
She  wanted  to  be  her  ownjColumbus,  and  cross 
an  unknown  sea,  —  not  travel  over  a  well- 
worn  road,  with  a  sign-post  at  every  corner, 

21 


322  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

and  dozens  of  friendly  eyes  watching  her  as 
she  went. 

The  immediate  effect  of  all  this  was  that 
she  was  sometimes  quite  rude  and  chilling  to 
poor  John  Rogers.  She  was  dissatisfied  with 
things  in  general,  and,  in  the  slang  phrase, 
she  "  took  it  out"  of  him.  On  this  particular 
evening  at  Mrs.  Dillingham's  she  seemed 
more  illusive  and  distant  than  ever. 

John  Rogers  watched  her  dancing  with 
other  men  nearly  all  the  evening,  and  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he  helped  her 
into  the  carriage  at  last,  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourself,"  he 
said  grimly. 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  she  answered  airily.  "  I 
think  it  was  quite  the  prettiest  cotillon  this 
winter.  The  Dillinghams  always  do  things 
so  well,  —  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  feeling  that  they  had  not 
done  particularly  well  for  him. 

"  It  was  such  a  pretty  idea,"  she  went  on, 
"  having  those  snowball  favors  of  swan's- 
down.  But,  do  you  know,  they  were  heavier 
than  lead.  I  threw  one  at  Will  Lawrence, 
and  it  nearly  knocked  off  his  ear." 

"  Did  it?  "  he  answered,  so  wearily  that  she 
hastened  to  say,  — 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM.     323 

"  Do  you  know,  I  believe  you  were  bored 
to  death  the  whole  time." 

"  You  know  I  love  to  go  anywhere  with 
you,  Cora,  but  this  is  somehow  so  unsatisfac- 
tory." There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and 
then  he  added  impetuously :  "  I  want  you 
all  to  myself,  not  shared  with  all  those  chat- 
tering idiots.  I  said  I  would  n't  worry  you, 
and  I  don't  mean  to ;  but  if  you  knew  how 
hard  this  waiting  was.  Sometimes  I  almost 
wish  you  'd  say  '  no,'  and  have  done  with 
it." 

"  I  can  say  that  now,"  she  answered 
cheerfully. 

"  No,  don't,"  he  said  hastily.  "  Of  course 
I  don't  mean  that.  I  '11  wait  forever,  —  as 
long  as  there 's  the  ghost  of  a  chance.  But 
why  can't  you  decide  now,  Cora?  Why  can't 
you  tell  me  to-night?  I  love  you  so  — 

Her  clear  laugh  interrupted  him.  "  I  never 
heard  anything  so  ridiculous,  —  proposing  in 
a  carriage  at  two  o'clock  at  night !  Why, 
there  is  n't  room  to  answer  in." 

"  There  's  room  enough  to  say  '  yes.'  " 

"  There,  don't  be  silly  !  You  know  I  like 
you  better  than  any  one  ;  but  I  don't  want  to 
marry  anybody  for  a  long,  long  time." 

They  were  silent  until  the  carriage  stopped, 


324  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

when  she  sprang  quickly  out,  as  if  eager  to 
escape.  At  the  door  she  paused. 

"  You  're  going  to  take  me  to  the  Barclays' 
Tuesday,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  expected  to.    Is  your  sister  going?  " 

"  Yes,  she  and  Charlie  too;  and  we  all  dine 
together  at  the  Burdens'.  You  won't  forget?  " 

So,  with  the  cheerful  prospect  before  him 
of  repeating  his  evening's  experiences,  he 
drove  home  alone.  He  remarked  to  himself 
several  times  that  he  was  a  fool,  and  he  felt 
quite  sure  of  it  the  night  at  the  Barclays' 
dance.  He  had  been  "  flocking  by  himself" 
for  some  time,  and  wondering  why  on  earth 
he  allowed  Cora  to  drag  him  to  these  ghastly 
entertainments.  He  was  standing  by  a  screen 
of  palms,  when  he  suddenly  became  conscious 
of  voices  on  the  other  side  of  it. 

"There  is  no  chance  that  you  would  ever 
think  differently?  "  a  man's  voice  was  saying. 

"  I  think  not,"  answered  the  girl,  gently 
and  softly. 

John  Rogers's  heart  leaped  within  him,  for 
it  was  Cora's  voice.  He  knew  he  ought  not 
to  listen,  knew  that  he  ought  to  walk 
promptly  in  an  opposite  direction  ;  but  —  but 
—  here  was  another  man  proposing  to  his 
Cora. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM.     325 

"  Of  course,"  the  man's  voice  said  humbly, 
"  if  there  is  some  one  else  —  "  He  hesitated, 
and  there  was  a  little  silence. 

"  There  is  some  one  else,"  said  Cora,  in  a 
very  low  voice  that  trembled  slightly.  "  I 
have  always  thought  the  least  a  girl  could  do 
was  to  be  perfectly  frank  and  honest,  and  so 
I  will  trust  you  —  I  will  tell  you.  We  are 
not  engaged,  and  I  have  treated  him  very 
badly,  but — it  is  John  Rogers.  I  think  I 
have  always  cared  more  for  him  than  for 
any  one.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry ! "  she  added 
impulsively. 

Just  then  there  was  the  hum  of  other 
voices,  and  they  moved  away,  or  were  silent, 
for  John  Rogers  could  not  hear  them  any 
more. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  dazed  and  blinded 
by  his  happiness.  Cora's  low  broken  words 
were  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  came  out  of 
his  corner  with  such  a  beaming  face,  and  his 
spirits  were  so  high  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing, that  several  of  his  partners  had  doubts 
as  to  his  sobriety.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  wait  to  see  Cora  alone.  Her  brother  and 
sister  were  in  the  carriage  driving  home,  but 
he  contrived  to  find  Cora's  hand,  and  to  press 
it  hard.  To  his  surprise  she  drew  it  quickly 
away. 


326  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

"  May  I  come  to  see  you  in  the  morning?  " 
he  asked  at  the  door. 

"  In  the  morning  ?  "  she  questioned,  with  a 
puzzled  look. 

"  Yes.  I  must  see  you  ;  I  cannot  possibly 
wait." 

"  Well,  come,  if  you  want  to,  but  I  sha'n't 
promise  to  be  down.  I  never  was  one  of 
these  early  birds,"  she  said  lightly. 

It  seemed  to  John  Rogers  as  if  the  next 
morning  was  the  longest  he  ever  knew.  He 
held  himself  in  check  until  about  ten  o'clock, 
when  he  could  wait  no  longer,  and  then  went 
with  all  speed  to  see  Cora. 

She  kept  him  waiting  a  long  time;  and 
when  she  finally  appeared,  looking  very 
lovely  in  her  trailing  morning-dress,  she 
seemed  entirely  oblivious  of  her  confession 
and  his  happiness.  But  John  Rogers  was 
intensely  in  earnest.  He  could  not  trifle, 
and  so  as  soon  as  possible  after  her  laughing 
greeting  he  said :  — 

"  I  was  in  the  hall  back  of  the  palms,  Cora, 
last  night.  I  don't  know  who  he  was,  —  I  don't 
want  to  know ;  but  I  heard  you  tell  him  — 
oh,  Cora — I  heard  you  tell  him  that  you 
cared  for  me."  His  voice  sank  almost  to  a 
whisper,  and  his  face  was  quivering  with  the 
intensity  of  his  feeling. 


THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM.  327 

A  deep  wave  of  color  rushed  over  the 
girl's  face;  then  she  grew  very  pale,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  her  whole  attitude  toward  him 
stiffened  and  hardened.  "  May  I  ask,"  she 
said  coldly,  "  if  it  is  your  habit  to  go  around 
listening  to  conversation  that  is  intended  for 
other  people?  " 

"  I  know  it  was  wrong,"  he  answered,  in  a 
troubled,  humbled  way  ;  "  but,  Cora,  I  heard 
him  speak  before  I  had  a  chance  to  get  away, 
and  then,  —  oh,  Cora,  it  was  so  sweet  to  hear 
your  answer !  " 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly  ;  but  there 
was  no  relenting  in  her  face  or  manner. 

"  I  think  it  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  most 
ungentlemanly  thing  to  do.  However,  since 
you  did  see  fit  to  listen,  I  cannot  possibly 
understand  how  you  could  twist  the  conver- 
sation into  any  reference  to  you  whatever." 

He  seemed  bewildered.  "  Why,  you 
said  —  "  he  began. 

"  I  said,"  she  interrupted  calmly,  "  that  I 
cared  for  some  one  else.  If  you  in  your 
vanity  and  complacency  think  I  meant  you, 
I  cannot  help  it." 

"  But  you  said  me,  —  you  mentioned  my 
name,  —  I  heard  you,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  in  a  dazed  way. 


328     THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM. 

She  bit  her  lip  and  looked  a  little  embar- 
rassed. "  Did  I  ?  "  she  said  carelessly.  "  I 
don't  remember  it.  But  can't  you  see  that 
it  is  necessary  sometimes  to  say  something, 
—  to  have  a  definite  excuse,  —  to  settle 
things  once  for  all?  I  am  very  sorry  if  I 
used  your  name,  and  particularly  sorry  that 
I  should  have  used  your  name,  and  particu- 
larly sorry  that  you  should  have  overheard  it." 
Her  eyes  flashed  indignantly  at  him  ;  but  he 
was  too  miserable  to  notice  her  disdain. 

"And  you  meant  nothing?  Oh,  Cora,  I 
can't  believe  it!  I  have  been  so  happy.  I 
thought  that  at  last  you  knew  your  heart ; 
and  now  it  is  a  thousand  times  worse  than 
ever !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  misunder- 
standing," she  said ;  "  but  really  if  people 
will  listen  —  "  She  stopped  abruptly,  struck 
by  the  dumb  despair  in  his  face.  "  Don't 
let 's  talk  about  it  any  more,"  she  said,  in  a 
kinder  tone.  "  You  dine  with  us  to-morrow. 
You  know  —  Thanksgiving  day." 

"  I  shall  never  dine  here  again,"  he 
answered  grimly  ;  "  and  as  for  Thanksgiving, 
it  is  a  cheerful  Thanksgiving  that  you  have 
given  me !  I  am  a  worm  of  the  dust  before 
you.  You  are  as  cold  and  heartless  as  a 


THE   TURNING  OF  THE    WORM.          329 

stone  image.  At  times  I  hate  you.  If  you 
were  only  honest,  if  you  would  only  tell  me 
frankly  that  you  cared  nothing  for  me,  why, 
I  'd  crawl  away  and  try  to  get  over  it  some- 
how. But  you  are  n't  fair,  you  are  n't  true. 
You  give  me  a  little  hope,  and  then  grow 
more  distant  than  ever.  You  are  a  thorough 
coquette,  —  a  woman  without  a  soul !  " 

Cora  Fenton  trembled  a  little  at  this 
arraignment ;  but  her  voice  was  steady  as  she 
answered  :  "  If  this  be  so,  I  advise  you  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  It  is  easy 
to  leave  me,  and  I  shall  not  follow  you." 

They  eyed  each  other  fixedly,  measuring 
their  strength.  Then  the  man  quailed.  "  It 's 
no  use,"  he  said  miserably.  "  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  " 

"  Behave  like  a  sane  person,  in  general, 
and  come  to  dinner  to-morrow  in  particular." 

"And  then?" 

"Oh,  John,  how  can  I  tell?  "  She  looked 
at  him  appealingly,  and  put  a  little  white 
hand  on  his  arm.  She  had  conquered,  —  she 
could  afford  to  be  generous.  "  You  know 
you  are  the  dearest  friend  I  have,"  she 
continued,  in  a  soft,  caressing  voice.  "  It 
nearly  kills  me  when  you  talk  to  me  like 
that.  I  do  care  for  you,  truly,  honestly,  — 


330  THE    TURNING  OF  THE    WORM. 

only  I  cannot  tell  yet.  How  is  a  girl  to 
know?  I  am  not  a  flirt.  I  like  to  have  a 
good  time,  and  to  have  attention  —  What 
girl  does  n't  ?  But  I  hate  to  have  you  feel  so. 
Cheer  up.  Perhaps  it  will  all  come  out  right 
yet."  And  she  looked  at  him  shyly  and 
sweetly. 

"Well,"  he  said  gloomily,  "perhaps  it 
will." 

"  And  you  will  come  to  dinner  to-morrow?  " 

"  I  suppose  so ;  although  it  seems  such  a 
farce." 

"  Well,  that  won't  affect  the  turkey  or 
the  plum-pudding;  and — we  all  want  you, 
John !  " 

And  so  the  worm,  having  been  well 
trodden  upon,  crawled  off  to  prepare  for  his 
Thanksgiving.  But  he  was  very  unhappy. 

He  remained  in  his  own  room  that  evening, 
restless  and  uneasy.  He  lighted  a  number 
of  cigars,  which  he  allowed  to  go  out,  and 
tried  to  read.  Finally,  he  found  a  volume 
that  interested  him,  slightly  at  first,  and  then 
more  deeply,  till,  pushing  all  the  other  books 
and  papers  aside,  he  read  on  into  the  night. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  book  was  one  of 
Balzac's  masterpieces,  —  it  struck  him  simply 
as  the  truthful  story  of  a  woman's  heart. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM.     331 

"  By  George !  "  he  exclaimed,  throwing 
the  book  from  him,  and  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  "  So  he  was  going  to  brand  her ! 
Well,  that 's  the  way  to  treat  such  a  woman  !  " 

Then  he  thought  of  Cora,  and  the  little 
coal  of  resentment  that  had  burned  hot  in 
his  heart  ever  since  parting  from  her  sud- 
denly glowed  afresh.  He  thought  a  long 
time  ;  and  when  he  finally  put  out  his  light, 
and  went  to  sleep,  he  was  a  different  John 
Rogers  from  the  disheartened  fellow  he  had 
been  all  day.  Determination  had  taken  the 
place  of  endurance ;  long-suffering  had  ended 
in  resolution.  It  would  have  disturbed  Miss 
Cora  Fenton's  dreams  had  she  known  that 
the  worm  had  made  up  its  mind  to  turn. 

Next  day  was  Thanksgiving,  a  clear  cold 
day,  with  the  gleam  of  sunshine  on  the  icicles 
and  a  hint  of  snow  in  the  air. 

It  was  just  the  day  for  a  sleigh-ride,  and 
Cora  Fenton,  although  a  little  surprised,  was 
delighted  when  John  Rogers  came  for  her 
in  the  afternoon.  His  pretty  sleigh  stood 
waiting  at  the  door,  while  his  horse  pawed 
the  snow,  and  shook  his  head  as  if  impatient 
to  be  off. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  go,"  said  Cora,  gra- 
ciously. "  All  houses  seem  stuffy  such  a 
day  as  this.  You  're  not  going  far?  " 


332  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

"That  depends,"  he  answered  smilingly. 
"  We  '11  come  home  whenever  you  say  the 
word." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  was  suddenly 
struck  by  the  fact  that  he  was  a  very  hand- 
some man,  tall  and  straight,  with  broad 
shoulders,  and  such  a  kind  good  face.  But 
to-day  it  seemed  to  Cora  that  his  honest 
eyes  were  a  deeper  blue  than  usual,  and  she 
had  never  noticed  before  how  firm  and 
strong  the  lines  of  his  mouth  were,  half- 
hidden  under  his  brown  beard.  She  was 
unusually  light-hearted,  and  chatted  gayly  as 
they  drove  along  to  a  merry  accompaniment 
of  sleigh-bells  and  jingling  harness. 

Everybody  they  met  seemed  smiling  and 
happy,  and  the  drive  was  so  pleasant  that  it 
was  with  a  feeling  of  regret  Cora  finally 
said,  — 

"  Ought  n't  we  to  turn  around  now?  I've 
lost  all  track  of  time  ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
everybody  else  is  headed  for  home." 

"  I    don't    think    we  'd    better    turn,"    he 

answered  steadily,  "  until  I  have  asked  you  a 

few  questions,  and  you  have  answered  them." 

Something    in    his    voice    surprised    her. 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  he  continued,  in  a  low 


THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM.  333 

tone,  "  if  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
marry  me." 

"  Why,  John,"  she  said  uneasily,  "  how 
queer  you  are !  Everything  has  been  so 
nice  and  pleasant,  and  now  you  must  needs 
go  and  rake  up  that  old  subject." 

There  was  a  cold  gleam  in  his  eye  that  she 
did  n't  like.  She  watched  him  for  a  moment 
in  troubled  silence.  Then  she  added,  — 

"  I  've  told  you  over  and  over  that  I  did  n't 
know  how  much  —  I  cared." 

"  Well,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  propose  to 
drive  until  you  find  out." 

"What?" 

"Just  that.  You  will  have  to  know  your 
own  mind  to-day.  You  can  take  all  the 
time  you  want,  and  I  won't  interrupt  you 
while  you  think." 

"  Why,  John  Rogers !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  're  perfectly  crazy  !  Take  me  home 
at  once !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
Take  me  home  —  or  I  '11  —  I  '11  jump 
out." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  held  her 
firmly.  "  See  here,  Cora,"  he  said  gently, 
"you  can't  jump  out.  Of  course  you  can 
scream,  if  you  want  to,  and  attract  attention  ; 
but  you  know  well  enough  that  that  means 


334  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

publicity,  and  perhaps  notoriety.  You  know 
that  you  can  trust  me,  Cora.  I  would  n't 
hurt  a  hair  of  your  head,  but  to-day  you  Ve 
got  to  answer  me." 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  drive?"  she 
asked  indignantly. 

"  Until  you  answer." 

"But  if  I  don't?" 

"  Oh,  you  will  before  to-morrow  morning." 

"  To-morrow  morning  !  "  she  gasped. 

"Yes,"  he  said  calmly;  "  it's  going  to  be 
a  beautiful  moonlight  night.  I  Ve  got  plenty 
of  wraps  and  robes.  I  see  no  reason  why 
we  should  n't  drive  all  night." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  she  cried  ;  "  you're 
not  in  earnest." 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  squarely. 
"You're  very  much  mistaken  if  you  think 
this  is  a  joke,"  he  said  soberly.  "  I  never 
was  more  serious  in  my  life." 

"  And  do  you  think  this  is  a  manly,  honor- 
able way  to  act?  Do  you  think  a  gentleman 
would  steal  a  helpless  girl  like  this,  and  run 
off  with  her?  I  call  it  a  mean,  contemptible 
trick !  "  and  her  eyes  blazed  at  him. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Cora,"  he  said,  in  the 
same  even  tone.  "  I  am  not  running  away 
with  you.  It  is  in  your  power  to  have  me 


THE    TURNING  OF  THE    WORM.  335 

turn  around  this  minute.  I  want  you  to  say, 
'John  Rogers,  I  love  you,  and  will  marry 
you ;  '  or,  if  you  cannot  say  that,  look  me 
in  the  face  and  say,  '  I  do  not  love  you,  and 
never  want  to  see  you  again ;  '  and  in  either 
case  I  will  turn  instantly  and  take  you  home. 
One  or  the  other  you  shall  say  before  you 
leave  this  sleigh." 

She  began  to  cry.  "  Very  well,"  she  said, 
between  her  sobs,  "  if  you  're  so  anxious  to 
hear  it,  I  '11  say  it.  '  John  Rogers,  I  cannot 
bear  the  sight  of  you.'  There  !  " 

"  I  did  n't  tell  you  to  say  that ;  and 
besides,  you  never  looked  me  in  the  face." 

"  I  will." 

"  Very  well,  do." 

She  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  his,  and 
began,  bravely  enough,  "  John  Rogers,  I 
do  notl—  "  and  then  she  faltered,  and  turned 
her  head  away. 

"  You  do  not  dare  to  say  it !  "  he  cried 
triumphantly. 

She  was  silent. 

"Oh,  Cora,"  he  pleaded,  "why  won't  you 
yield?  I  know  you  love  me.  I  have  felt 
sure  of  it  ever  since  that  night  at  the  Bar- 
clays. Nothing  you  said  has  really  shaken 
my  faith  in  it.  Why,  I  heard  you  say  so, 


336  THE    TURNING   OF   THE    WORM. 

dear.     Say  it  again,  darling,  and    make  me 
happy  forever." 

But  she  did  not  answer,  and  they  drove  on 
in  silence. 

"Are  we  far  from  home?"  she  asked,  in 
a  choked  voice. 

"  About  fifteen  miles  I  should  say." 

"  They  will  wonder  what  has  become  of 
us." 

"  Yes,"  he  assented,  "  they  will." 

"  Don't  you   think   this   is  very    unfair,  — 
very  ungenerous?  " 

"  No,  not  when  I  consider  the  woman  I  am 
dealing  with." 

There  was  another  long  pause. 

"  Are  you  very  sure  you  care  for  me, 
John?" 

"  Sure !  Good  heavens !  Why,  Cora,  I 
have  n't  had  a  thought  of  anything  but  you 
for  years.  I  have  n't  been  able  to  work,  to 
think,  or  do  anything.  You  've  just  filled 
the  world  for  me,  Cora." 

"Well,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "I  don't 
like  this  trick  of  yours  at  all ;  I  think  it  is 
horrid  ;  but  I  —  I  will,  John  —  There !  are 
you  satisfied?" 

He  dropped  the  reins  and  put  his  arms 
around  her. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM.    337 

"  My  darling — "  he  began;  but  she  strug- 
gled away  from  him  and  cried,  — 

"  You  said  you  'd  turn  around !  " 

A  little  chilled  in  his  rapture,  he  turned 
his  horse  around.  Then  he  looked  at  her. 
She  was  very  pretty  in  the  dim  light.  Her 
eyes  were  shining,  and  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light he  could  still  see  the  clear  bright  color 
in  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Cora,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  think  I  am 
the  happiest  man  on  earth !  " 

She  looked  at  him  archly. 

"  I  have  said  I  would  marry  you,  John, 
because  you  made  me  ;  but  I  did  n't  say 
when.  It  won't  be  for  a  long  time  yet !  " 

He  felt  faint  and  sick.  Was  all  this 
struggle  for  nothing  then?  She  was  play- 
ing with  him  again,  like  a  cat  with  a 
mouse. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"  Won't  you  marry  me  now —  soon?  I  have 
waited  so  long." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Not 
for  years  and  years,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

He  drew  the  horse  up  so  suddenly  that  it 
reared  and  nearly  fell  over  backward;  then 
he  turned  it  sharply  in  the  opposite  direction. 
He  muttered  something  under  his  breath, 

23 


338  THE    TURNING   OF   THE    WORM. 

gave  the  horse  a  quick  cut  with  the  whip, 
and  off  they  drove  again. 

This  time  there  was  a  long  silence.  The 
stars  began  to  come  out.  They  were  well  out 
in  the  country,  and  could  see  the  lights  in 
the  few  houses  that  they  passed.  They  were 
almost  alone  upon  the  road.  Now  and  then 
a  solitary  figure  passed  them,  but  the  merry- 
makers had  all  gone  home. 

Cora  looked  at  him  furtively,  but  he  never 
looked  at  her.  His  face  was  fixed  and  stern, 
and  there  were  some  ugly  lines  between  his 
eyebrows. 

Presently  she  said  softly,  "John." 

At  first  he  paid  no  attention ;  but  when  she 
repeated  his  name  he  answered  sharply, 
"What?"  . 

"  John,"  she  said  timidly,  "  is  n't  it  very 
late?  What  time  is  it?" 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  tried  to  look 
at  it,  but  the  moon  was  not  yet  bright 
enough.  Then  he  lighted  a  match,  which 
went  out.  The  second  was  more  successful. 
"  It's  a  quarter  past  eight,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Oh,  what  will  Charlie  and  Nettie  think !  " 
she  said,  with  a  little  sob.  "  It 's  long  past 
dinner-time." 

He  made  no  answer. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM.    339 

"And  it's  Thanksgiving,  too,"  she  added 
tremulously. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  horrible  sarcasm  in 
his  voice,  "  Thanksgiving  !  " 

Presently  she  spoke  again.     "  John,  don't 
look  like  that !     Don't,  don't !     I  cannot  bear 
it !     I  will  promise  you   anything;   John,  — 
any  tiling  /" 

"  I  could  n't  trust  you  if  you  did." 

She  cried  softly  to  herself  for  a  few  min- 
utes. Then  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  leaning 
toward  him  a  little  as  she  spoke,  "  John,  I 
will  marry  you  whenever  you  want  me  to." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  want  you  to," 
he  answered  grimly. 

She  gave  a  little  cry,  and  turned  away 
from  him,  and  for  a  long  time  he  heard  her 
stifled  sobs. 

By-and-by  she  turned  toward  him  again, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  said  despairingly,  "  don't 
act  so !  " 

She  had  taken  off  her  glove,  and  now  she 
slid  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  then 
down  his  sleeve  until  it  rested  upon  his  wrist. 
She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  pushed  it 
gently  inside  the  heavy  driving-gloves  which 
he  was  wearing,  until  it  lay  within  his  palm. 


340  THE    TURNING   OF  THE    WORM. 

He  felt  the  soft  warm  touch,  and  it  made  his 
pulses  tingle ;  but  he  would  not  close  his  own 
fingers  around  the  little  hand  that  nestled  in 
them. 

"  Is  n't  there  anything  that  I  can  do  to  make 
you  forgive  me  ?  "  she  asked  coaxingly. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said  coldly;  "I 
could  n't  trust  you."  Just  then  he  had  an 
inspiration.  "  Maybe  I  might  believe  you," 
he  added  doubtfully,  "if  you  — if  you  kissed 
me!" 

She  drew  away  from  him  a  little. 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  do  that,"  she  cried ;  "  it 
would  be  so  —  so  unpleasant !  " 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  he  said  severely. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  mean  that !  I 
mean  you  ought  —  that  I  —  Oh  !  I  could  n't 
do  it." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean ;  an  accepted 
lover  should  kiss  his  sweetheart,  and  not  she 
him ;  but  in  our  case  I  would  have  more 
faith  in  the  kiss  as  a  sign  of  affection,  if  you 
gave  it." 

"  Oh,"  she  said  hopelessly,  "  you  are  so 
hard,  so  cold !  " 

"  I  have  been  learning  from  a  finished 
teacher,"  he  said,  with  an  ironical  tone  in  his 
voice. 


THE    TURNING  OF  THE    WORM.       341 

She  turned  toward  him  impulsively,  hesi- 
tated a  second,  and  then  her  lips  just  grazed 
his  cheek. 

"  Do  you  call  that  a  kiss,  —  that  little  flavor- 
less dab  !"  he  said  calmly.  "  Why,  it  is  a  mere 
accidental  contact !  Kiss  me  on  my  lips  !  " 

"  Oh,  John,  I  can't,  I  can't !  "  She  shrank 
away  again,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  muff. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "you  need  n't  unless 
you  want  to." 

Again  the  silence  and  the  continual  driving 
on.  Neither  of  them  knew  now  what  time  it 
was,  or  where  they  were.  In  the  life-and- 
death  struggle  in  which  their  two  natures 
were  clinched  everything  else  was  forgotten. 

Finally  Cora  gave  a  little  cry.  "  You  are 
killing  me !  "  she  said,  and  she  gave  one  last 
look  at  his  stern  set  face.  He  looked  at  her 
in  return,  unmoved  and  unrelenting.  Then, 
with  a  little  quivering  sob,  she  put  both  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  full  upon  his 
lips.  "  Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "  I  do  love  you, 
love  you,  love  you,  with  all  my  heart !  Won't 
you  trust  me?  Won't  you  love  me  ?  I  have 
been  cruel  and  wicked,  but  I  —  I  've  loved 
you  always,  John ;  and  I  '11  marry  you  to- 
morrow." She  sobbed  out  the  words  half 
brokenly. 


342     THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM. 

He  believed  her  then,  and  gathered  her 
closely  to  him,  and  she  was  calmed  and  com- 
forted. He  was  not  elated  because  he  had 
conquered,  —  only  joyfully  happy  because  at 
last  he  had  secured  her ;  but  she  knew  that 
she  had  been  vanquished  by  something 
stronger  than  anything  within  her,  and  in 
her  heart  she  rejoiced  over  her  defeat. 

It  was  very  late  when  they  got  back. 
Cora's  brother  and  his  wife  were  waiting  with 
anxious  faces  in  the  drawing-room.  Dinner 
was  long  since  over,  and  wonderment  at  their 
absence  had  given  place  to  apprehension  and 
alarm. 

"We  're  all  right,  Charlie,"  called  out  John 
Rogers,  heartily,  as  they  entered.  "  Nothing 
has  happened,  but  we  were  delayed  on  the 
road.  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it  later.  Cora 
is  tired  to  death.  Give  her  some  supper,  and 
send  her  to  bed,  and  don't  question  the  poor 
child  to-night." 

Cora  laughed  a  little  hysterically.    "  Charlie 

-  Nettie  !  "  she   cried,    "  I  'm    going   to  tell 

you!     He — he  has  been  proposing  to  me 

and  I  Ve  been  accepting  him,  and  I  think  it 

took  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  do  it  in !  " 

They  gathered  around  her  with  exclama- 
tions and  kisses.  They  nearly  shook  John 


THE    TURNING  OF  THE    WORM.        343 

Rogers's  hand  off.  They  were  so  heartily 
glad  that  they  quite  forgot  all  their  former 
anxiety  and  worry. 

"  But,"  said  Nettie,  after  a  little,  "  you 
have  n't  had  any  Thanksgiving  dinner !  " 

"  I  know,"  answered  John  Rogers.;  "but  we 
concluded  on  the  way  home  it  was  a  great 
deal  better  to  have  a  Thanksgiving  without  a 
dinner,  than  it  was  to  have  a  dinner  without 
any  Thanksgiving !  " 


THE  END. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  QUESTION   OF  LOVE. 

of 


Translated  by  ANNIE  R.  RAMSEY,  from  the  French  of 

T.    COMBE. 

i6mo.     Cloth,  price,  $1.00  ;  paper,  50  cents. 


The  scene  is  laid  in  Switzerland,  and  the  narrative  has  to  do  with  a  delight- 
fully original  family,  consisting  of  two  old  men  (one  of  them  almost  a  centenarian); 
a  spinster  housekeeper  of  quaint,  undemonstrative  manners  ;  an  elderly  servant, 
always  ready  to  speak  her  mind  on  the  slightest  provocation ;  and  last,  but  by  no 
means  least,  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen,  whose  loneliness  amid  these  surroundings, 
cut  off  from  all  companionship  with  persons  of  her  own  age,  is  forcibly  depicted. 
Pretty  little  Zoe,  with  her  shy  ways  and  her  tender  heart,  is  a  most  attractive 
character,  and  the  reader  will  not  wonder  that  Samuel,  the  honest  son  of  the 
neighboring  former,  falls  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her.  But  Samuel's  hopes  are 
doomed  to  disappointment.  All  the  characters  are  well  drawn,  and  among  them 
old  Brutus  Romanel  is  not  the  least  delightful.  His  one  ambition  is  that  he  may 
live  to  be  a  hundred,  and  he  comments  on  the  obituary  list  in  the  newspaper  with 
a  glee  that  would  be  disgusting  if  it  were  not  so  artless.  Miss  Ramsey's  transla- 
tion deserves  the  highest  praise  for  its  freedom  from  Gallic  idioms.  Here,  evi- 
dently, is  one  translator  who  believes  that  a  translation  into  English  ought  to  be 
written  in  the  English  language,  and  not  in  that  droll  Anglo-French  patois  which 
so  often  does  duty  for  English  at  the  hands  of  the  ignorant  and  incompetent.  — 
The  Beacon. 

It  is  a  clean,  sweet-smelling  story,  a  great  relief  after  the  quantities  of  realistic 
stuff  produced  by  the  modem  French  school.  The  characterization  is  excellent, 
and  the  style  and  treatment  deserve  special  commendation.  It  is  a  pretty  and 
wholesome  love  story  that  recommends  itself  specially  to  the  attention  of  the 
maidens. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  mailed  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,   BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  BrotJiers*  Publications. 


A  VIOLIN    OBLIGATO 


BY   MARGARET  CROSBY. 
i6mo.     Cloth,  price,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 


A  noteworthy  dramatic  purpose,  acute  insight  into  the  recesses  of  individual 
character,  ready  command  of  the  motives  that  govern  the  relations  of  allied  or 
contradictory  natures,  a  persistent  recognition  of  the  essential  pathos  of  life  to 
those  who  look  beneath  its  surface,  and  a  versatility  of  style  that  easily  ranges 
from  grave  to  gay,  —  these,  with  an  underlying  sense  of  humor  that  now  and  then 
blossoms  out  into  ample  radiance,  are  the  traits  and  qualifications  displayed  by 
Margaret  Crosby  in  "  A  Violin  Obligato  and  Other  Stories."  The  strength  and 
scope  of  the  tales  brought  together  in  this  volume  are  indeed  remarkable ;  they 
touch  on  many  phases  of  human  existence,  and  they  appeal  to  something  more 
than  a  mere  desire  for  mental  distraction.  Most  of  the  productions  included  in 
this  book  have  a  clear  ethical  purport ;  one  cannot  read  them  without  getting  new 
light  upon  personal  duty  and  realizing  the  force  of  the  decree  that  renders  every 
man  and  every  woman  responsible  for  the  influence  he  or  she  brings  to  bear  on 
others.  The  first  story,  "A  Violin  Obligato,"  deals  with  the  fate  of  a  poor 
musician  in  whom  the  artistic  impulse  overbalanced  artistic  capability.  "  On  the 
South  Shore"  and  "An  Islander"  have  their  scenes  laid  in  Nantucket,  a  region 
where  Miss  Crosby  is  apparently  very  much  at  home.  The  woman  whose  face  is 
her  fortune  is  the  central  figure  in  "  A  Complete  Misunderstanding,"  and  the 
way  in  which  she  wrecks  the  happiness  of  two  men  is  related  with  no  attempt  at 
melodramatic  exaggeration,  but  witk  a  straightforward  vigor  that  is  always  effec- 
tive. "The  Copeland  Collection"  has  a  delightful  savor  of  romance;  "Last 
Chance  Gulch  "  unfolds  exciting  episodes  in  the  life  of  a  Western  mining  camp  ; 
a  liaison  between  a  high-born  youth  and  a  beautiful  gypsy  is  the  theme  of  "  A 
Mad  Englishman  "  ;  it  is  a  humble  fisherman  in  a  New  England  village  who 
turns  out  to  be  "  A  Child  of  Light ;  "  and  in  the  "  Passages  from  the  Journal  of 
a  Social  Wreck"  there  is  a  comedy  of  the  first  order.  It  is  seldom  that  one 
encounters  a  collection  of  short  stories  from  the  pen  of  a  single  writer  where  the 
interest  is  so  diversified  and  yet  so  well  sustained  as  in  this  volume  by  Miss 
Crosby.  The  talent  displayed  in  every  one  of  these  essays  in  fiction  is  incontest- 
able. They  will  take  rank  at  once  with  the  representative  work  of  the  foremost 
American  authors  in  this  important  field  of  contemporary  literature.  —  Tlie 
Beacon. 


Sold  everywhere,  mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price  by  the 
publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  BOOK  O'  NINE  TALES 

itf)  ^Interludes* 


BY    ARLO    BATES, 

>/  "  A  Lad's  Love,"  "  Albrecht," 
of  the  Brier,"  etc. 

i6mo.     Cloth,  price,  $1.00 ;  paper,  50  cents. 


Author  of  "A  Lad's  Love"  "  Albreckt"  "Berries 
of  the  Brier,"  etc. 


Certainly  had  he  done  nothing  else  the  present  volume  should  go  far  toward 
making  him  a  permanent  reputation. 

"  His  stories  are  bright  and  clever,  but  they  have  higher  qualities  than  wit  and 
cleverness.  They  have  the  enchantments  of  the  magician,  the  pathos  and  passion 
of  the  poet.  The  plan  of  the  volume  is  ingenious.  There  are  the  '  Nine  Tales,' 
and  they  are  separated  by  eight  '  Interludes.'  These  '  Interludes '  are,  practi- 
cally, bright  little  social  comedies,"  says  Mrs.  Moulton  in  the  Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Bates  writes  smoothly  and  pleasantly.  His  stories  and  sketches  make 
very  entertaining  reading. 

"  A  Book  o'  Nine  Tales,"  by  Arlo  Bates,  whose  writing  has  been  familiar  in 
magazines  and  newspapers  for  several  years,  is  a  readable  volume  of  short  stories 
suited  to  the  light  leisure  of  summer  days  in  the  country.  There  are  really  seven- 
teen stories,  although  to  make  the  title  appropriate  Mr.  Bales  makes  every  second 
one  an  interlude.  They  are  simple,  gracefully  written,  unambitious  tales,  not 
calculated  to  move  the  emotions  more  than  will  be  comfortable  in  holiday  hours. 
They  are  short  and  interesting,  with  all  kinds  of  motives,  dealing  with  love  in 
every-day,  pretty,  tasteful  fashion.  A  weird  tale  is  "  The  Tuberose,"  which 
startles  one  a  little  and  leaves  a  great  deal  to  the  imagination.  The  book  will  be 
a  popular  seaside  and  country  volume. —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  A  Book  o'  Nine  Tales,"  by  Arlo  Bates,  who  has  become  very  popular  as  a 
writer  of  love  stories,  will  attract  much  attention  this  season  from  the  great  army 
of  readers  who  wish  for  "vacation  boots."  These  nine  stories  are  capitally  told, 
and  are  arranged  in  a  novel  manner  with  interludes  between.  These  interludes 
take  the  shape  of  short  scenes,  arranged  as  if  in  a  play,  the  dialogue  sustained  by 
two  persons,  a  lady  and  gentleman,  which  give  an  opportunity  to  portray  and 
satirize  in  a  very  effective  manner  many  queer  society  customs,  superstitions,  and 
characters  familiar  to  every  one  who  mingles  with  the  world.  They  make  a  most 
amusing  array  of  characters,  that  seem  to  live,  so  true  they  are  to  human  nature. 
"  Mere  Marchette  "  is  a  gem  in  this  unusually  good  collection  of  literary  jewels. 
—  Hartford  Times. 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


ALBRECHT. 


By  ARLO  BATES,  author  of  "A  Lad's  Love,"  "Berries  of 
the  Brier,"  etc.     i6mo.     Cloth.     Price,  $1.00. 

Arlo  Bates  has  given  us  a  genuine  old-time  romance  in  "  Albrecht,"  in 
which  the  hero,  a  kobold,  is  endowed  with  a  soul  through  his  marriage  with 
a  saintly  Christian  maiden.  It  takes  us  back  to  the  time  of  Charlemagne, 
and  the  action  occurs  in  the  forests  of  Schwarzwold,  which  are  peopled  by 
supernatural  beings,  including  the  kobolds,  whose  striking  resemblance  to 
human  kind  places  the  men  and  women  who  may  fall  in  their  way  in  constant 
danger  of  being  deceived.  The  heroine  loves  one  of  these  strange  creatures 
in  the  guise  of  a  handsome  knight,  and  after  she  has  become  a  wife  is  sub- 
ject to  longings  and  temptations  to  which  she  had  been  a  stranger  in  her 
days  of  happy,  innocent  girlhood.  A  good  father  confessor  is  the  guardian 
angel  of  the  strangely  wedded  pair,  and  through  his  intervention  their 
earthly  and  eternal  happiness  is  finally  assured.  The  romance  is  a  welcome 
change  from  the  eternal  round  of  commonplace  realism  with  which  we  are 
now  afflicted,  and  without  intending  to  be  didactic,  conveys  many  lessons 
which  he  who  runs  may  read.  It  reveals  a  poetic  and  refined  imagination 
at  every  step  ;  and  though  it  may  recall  "  Undine"  to  many  readers,  it  is 
not  in  any  sense  an'  imitation  of  that  immortal  work.  There  are  a  number 
of  graceful  lyrics  introduced  in  "  Albrecht,"  which  are  artistically  in  harmony 
with  the  atmosphere  of  this  fascinating  tale.  Those  who  wish  to  get  away 
from  this  work-a-day  world  for  a  brief  period  should  read  it  by  all  means.  — 
Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

Mr.  Arlo  Bates  has  written  a  kind  of  counterpart  to  "Undine"  in 
"  Albrecht."  It  is  pure  romance,  avowedly  non-didactic,  but  dealing,  in  its 
own  peculiar,  suggestive  way,  with  one  of  those  psychical  problems  which 
have  always  interested  and  perplexed  thinkers.  The  story  is  cast  in  the 
form  of  a  Teutonic  romance  of  the  time  of  Charlemagne.  .  .  .  Throughout 
the  tale  an  atmosphere  of  glamor  surrounds  everything,  and  the  reader  is 
put  and  kept  in  the  proper  milieu  with  an  art  deserving  high  praise. 
There  is  much  poetry  and  picturesqueness  in  the  description  ;  and  while 
the  tissue  of  the  romance  is  distinctly  light,  the  colors  are  appropriate,  they 
are  laid  on  skilfully  and  harmoniously,  and  the  general  effect  is  pleasing  and 
gratifying.  —  New  York  Tribune. 


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Messrs,  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

THE  TRUTH 
ABOUT  CLEMENT  KER. 

BY  GEORGE   FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OF  "KISMET,"  "MIRAGE,"  "ANDROMEDA,"  "THE  HEAD  or 
MEDUSA,"  AND  "VESTIGIA." 

One  volume.     i6mo.    Cloth.     Price,  75  cents. 


George  Fleming,  the  author  of  "  Kismet  "  and  "  Mirage,"  never  disappoints 
us  in  her  literary  work.  Although  she  has  not  yet  written  a  great  novel,  all  her 
stories  are  bright,  clever,  and  readable.  "  The  Truth  about  Clement  Ker  "  is  an 
artistic  ghost  story.  It  is  interesting  from  beginning  to  end ;  it  is  a  delightful 
mixture  of  the  natural  and  the  supernatural,  of  fiction  and  of  fact.  It  is  full  of  a 
weird  mysterious  suggestiveness  which  keeps  the  reader's  imagination  on  the  alert, 
and  yet  never  develops  into  the  sensational  or  absurd.  There  is  a  harmony  about 
all  the  incidents  in  the  story  before  us,  which  is  a  strong  evidence  of  the  writer's 
literary  taste.  No  one  part  is  treated  with  any  more  realism  than  another.  But 
characters  and  incidents  find  their  places  in  a  shadowy  atmosphere  whose  very 
indistinctness  is  a  part  of  its  charm.  In  these  days  of  realism,  psychology  and 
hypnotism  must  have  their  part  in  our  ghost  stories ;  the  occult  forces  of  the  uni- 
verse must  at  least  seem  to  be  in  sympathy  with  any  attempt  to  portray  the  super- 
natural. Nor  has  the  present  writer  been  ignorant  of  this  truth.  The  book 
before  us  is  one  of  the  best  short  stories  of  the  day ;  a  brilliant  sketch,  admirably 
conceived  and  executed.  —  Transcript. 

Miss  Fletcher  introduces  into  her  new  story  psychological  and  supernatural 
elements.  It  is  especially  notable  for  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  which  envelops 
it,  and  for  the  skill  with  which  startling  incidents  are  dealt.  "The  characters 
are  strongly  drawn,  and  the  whole  book  bears  witness  to  the  closeness  of  Miss 
Fletcher's  observation  and  her  insight  into  the  real  natures  of  men  and  women," 
says  MRS.  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 

To  their  excellent  little  "  Handy  Library,"  which,  in  spite  of  its  extreme  youth, 
already  promises  to  attain  a  good  and  honored  old  age,  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers 
have  just  added  "  The  Truth  about  Clement  Ker."  A  novel  by  George  Fleming 
stands  in  little  need  of  newspaper  comment  to  insure  its  popularity,  and  certainly 
this  already  widely  known  story  is  no  exception.  The  straightforward  unfolding 
of  its  rather  unusual  plot,  its  capital  character  sketching,  and  above  all,  the  fresh- 
ness and  vigor  with  which  the  old  and  ever  new  subject  is  treated,  recommend  to 
the  most  jaded  novel  reader.  —  Washington  Capitol. 


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fublishers, 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

A  WEEK  AWAY  FROM  TIME. 

I2mo,  Cloth,  Price,  $1.25  ;  Paper  Covers,  50  cents. 


The  scene  of  this  novel  is  Fair  Harbor,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  little  nook  on 
the  Buzzard's  Bay  shore  of  Cape  Cod,  in  the  town  of  Falmouth.  The  book 
deals  not  so  much  with  Cape  Cod  life  as  with  life  on  Cape  Cod,  —  the  life,  how- 
ever, of  the  summer  visitor,  of  the  seeker  after  pleasure,  not  the  life  of  us  "  to  the 
manner  born."  Of  the  scenery  on  Cape  Cod,  of  the  drives  to  Barnstable  Great 
Marshes,  of  cranberry  picking,  of  the  sea,  the  author  writes  delicately  and  affec- 
tionately. We,  who  are  so  used  to  the  ordinary  sights  of  the  Cape,  will  read  with 
pleasure  of  the  beauties  that  our  too  accustomed  eyes  have  failed  to  perceive  in 
our  surroundings.  —  Provincetown  Advocate. 

A  week  spent  by  a  happy  party  at  "  Fair  Harbor,"  a  place  located  somewhere 
between  Falmouth  and  Woods  Holl,  "  at  the  very  tip  end  of  the  heel  of  Cape 
Cod."  Margaret  Temple,  a  young  widow,  with  a  "supremely  fortunate  nature," 
finds  this  place,  which  is  a  "  fairy  inlet  where  the  voices  of  sirens  singing  to  your 
soul  would  bid  you  stay  and  be  at  rest."  She  purchases  "The  White  House,"  a 
quaint  old  mansion,  for  a  summer  home,  and  here  it  is  that  the  principal  action  of 
the  story  is  laid.  A  half-dozen  or  more  of  congenial  friends  gather  for  a  week's 
rest,  and  employ  the  time  in  quiet  diversions,  devoting  the  evenings  to  the  read- 
ing of  original  stories  prepared  by  members  of  the  party  in  turn.  The  party  is 
admirably  adapted  to  the  development  of  romance  ;  and  although  in  one  case  an 
athletic  young  Apollo  sails  away  with  a  broken  heart,  the  sum  total  is  so  much 
happiness  that  the  conclusion  is  very  satisfactory.  —  New  Bedford  Mercury. 

Anonymous  though  it  be,  there  are  too  many  marks  and  crosses,  tracks  and 
trails,  in  this  little  volume  for  an  observant  reader  to  remain  long  in  doubt  as  to 
birthplace  and  parentage.  The  conversations  alone  betray  Boston,  and  the  sto- 
ries the  highest  circle  of  literary  society  there.  Imitating  the  refined  tone  of  the 
company  writing,  invidious  selections  and  comparisons  are  avoided ;  and  if  especial 
mention  is  made  of  the  exquisite  prelude,  it  is  only  in  indorsement  of  the  taste 
that  placed  it  conspicuously,  where  it  should  be,  to  arrest  the  eye  of  the  reader  and 
give  the  key-note  of  the  charming  motif  to  follow.  —  Hartford  Courant. 

The  charm  of  the  book  —  and  it  has  a  charm  —  lies  in  the  hospitable  way  in 
which  the  reader  is  allowed  to  share  the  confidences  of  this  clever  little  group. 
"  A  Week  Away  from  Time  "  enlarges  agreeably  our  list  of  friends,  and  we  find 
ourselves  half  wishing  that  the  week  were  lengthened  into  a  fortnight.  —  Boston 
Transcript.  

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Messrs.  Robens  Brothers    Publications. 

QURSELVES 

AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS: 

SHORT    CHATS    ON    SOCIAL    TOPICS. 
By  LOUISE  CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

i6mo,  cloth,  price,  $1.00 ;   paper,  50  cents. 


A  book  of  social  studies,  ranging  over  such  topics  as  "  Rosebuds  in  Society," 
"Young  Beaux  and  Old  Bachelors,"  "  Engagements,"  "  After  Marriage,"  and 
other  similar  vital  experiences,  which  are  discussed  with  exquisite  refinement, 
good  sense,  and  unfailing  charm.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Moulton  never  loses  sight  of  ideals 
of  conduct  which  are  noble  and  beautiful,  and  which  are  worthy  to  hang  as  fixed 
stars  over  our  lives,  —  to  quote  the  words  of  a  great  German  philosopher.  She 
brings  to  bear,  also,  that  wide  range  of  experience  in  the  most  brilliant  and  culti- 
vated social  circles  that  holds  all  standards  amenable  to  outward  realization,  and 
her  gentle  counsel  thus  becomes  as  suggestive  as  it  is  ideally  fine.  —  Boston 
Traveller. 

If  we  had  our  way,  this  delightful  little  manual  of  social  ethics  should  have  a 
place  among  the  text-books  of  all  our  school-girls'  senior  year.  Mrs.  Moulton's 
philosophy  of  the  pleasure  and  the  mental  and  spiritual  profit  of  social  intercourse 
is  based  on  the  sure  foundation  of  the  education  of  the  heart.  From  right  feeling 
right  action  proceeds,  as  the  rays  from  the  flame.  There  is  sound  sense,  wit, 
geniality,  tenderness,  and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  exquisite  refinement  pervading 
all ;  but  not  a  cynical  nor  a  sarcastic  line  in  the  book.  There  is  that  wholesome 
reality  about  it  possible  only  where  the  author  lives  what  she  writes.  —  Boston 
Pilot. 

Here  is  a  book  of  courtesy,  of  rightful  living,  and  of  persuasive  wisdom,  which 
will  find  its  audience.  It  is  a  poet's  work,  gracefully  humorous  and  serious,  and 
on  its  own  topics  quite  oracular.  Its  purpose  is  to  emphasize  the  ideals  of 
guiet  home  living,  and  of  our  inter-relationships  outside  of  home,  as  acquaint- 
ances, friends,  and  lovers.  Pervading  every  chapter,  through  the  medium  of  a 
mellow  and  very  beautiful  style,  is,  too,  the  unconscious  personal  influence,  which, 
being  on  the  side  first  of  kindness,  and,  after,  of  the  noble  meanings  of  etiquette 
and  propriety,  must  make  itself  felt ;  a  spirit  unaided,  tolerant,  and  sanguine  of  all 
best  things.  —  New  York  Home  Journal. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  BrotJiers1  Publications. 

Miss  EYRE  FROM  BOSTON. 

AND    OTHERS. 
By   LOUISE  CHANDLER   MOULTON, 

Author  of  "  Some  Wometfs  Hearts,''''  " Random  Rambles?  "/«  tht 
Garden  of  Dreams"  "  Bed-Time  Stories"  etc. 

One  Vol.,  I6mo,  cloth.     Price,  $1.25.     Paper  covers,  60  cts. 


THESE  stories  are  marked  with  an  exquisite  touch  throughout,  and  while 
they  belong  to  the  region  of  sentiment,  they  escape  happily  the  bogs  of  sen- 
timentality. There  are  several  which  touch  upon  the  supernatural,  and  it  is 
pleasing  to  see  with  what  taste  and  cleverness  Mrs.  Moulton  has  handled 
these  difficult  themes.  They  have  just  the  right  touch  to  hold  them  be- 
tween the  credible  and  the  impossible,  and  they  are  all  in  some  way 
suggestive  of  unexplored  regions  lying  almost  palpably  behind  them.  The 
book  is  one  to  have  at  hand  for  hours  when  one  wishes  to  be  soothed  and 
cheered,  and  to  be  inspired  with  new  life,  for  it  is  full  of  good  inspirations. 
It  is  a^ok  one  would  be  glad  to  see  young  girls  read,  and  one,  too,  which 
there  is  no  doubt  that  young  girls  will  be  glad  to  read.  —  Sunday  Courier. 

THOSE  who  are  fond  of  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton's  writings  will 
find  this  delightful  collection  of  fourteen  short  stories  no  less  enjoyable 
than  that  charming  companion  volume  of  last  year,  entitled  "  Ourselves  and 
Our  Neighbors,"  or  the  still  more  exquisite  collection  of  novelettes, 
"Some  Women's  Hearts."  There  is  in  this  latest  volume  a  very  strong 
flavor  of  the  finest  and  most  attractive  features  of  New  England  city  and 
country  life,  but  there  are  also  bits  of  foreign  experiences  and  even  two 
ghost,  or  "  spirits,"  stories  which  give  a  spice  of  variety  to  the  contents. 
Mrs.  Moulton's  sympathies  are  only  with  that  which  is  lovable  and  uplift- 
ing in  human  nature,  and  she  has  the  rare  faculty  of  discovering  fine 
qualities  even  in  the  commonest  souls.  She  has  a  rare  insight  into  the 
depths  of  human  passion  and  emotion,  and  in  her  stories  we  never  find  other 
than  noble  and  beautiful  ideals  of  love.  The  same  sympathetic  instincts, 
delicacy  of  perception,  refinement  of  thought,  and  beauty  of  expression, 
which  characterized  so  distinctively  the  works  of  the  gifted  H.  H.,  are  found 
also  in  Mrs.  Moulton's  stories,  and  upon  her  has  fallen  the  mantle  of  a 
story-teller,  which  her  late  sister  wore  so  exquisitely.  This  little  book  of 
stories,  which  is  dedicated  to  five  talented  girls  of  Boston,  is  good  not  only 
for  summer  reading,  but  for  all  the  year  round.  —  Public  Opinion. 


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